


Collaring Mammon

by Shardinian



Series: Slavery in the Devildom [1]
Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Collars, Dom/sub, Gen, Humiliation, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Public Humiliation, Situational Humiliation, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24441847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shardinian/pseuds/Shardinian
Summary: That's it! One more day of this, and my head's gonna explode!  If Mammon can't admit that maybe, just MAYBE, he's got a stupid, schoolyard crush on me... then I'm gonna force it out of him.  He might've forgotten that our pact means I'm in charge... but I sure as hell haven't.**This is a platonic story.  (Albeit with strong bdsm overtones, because, frankly, I can't help myself).  I usually write slash/rape fiction, but this fandom is new ground for me, and I'm easing into it.  If people like this one, just let me know, and I'll open the floodgate.Please comment if you enjoyed it, or if you have critiques.MC in this story is female, and her name is Mishka.  If you'd like to substitute your own MC, feel free to save the story and search/replace to your heart's content.*****If you spot typos, PLEASE leave me a comment so I can fix them.  Thank you.***Please enjoy!
Relationships: Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Character(s)
Series: Slavery in the Devildom [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132217
Comments: 72
Kudos: 156





	1. "If you know your enemy and know yourself, your victory will not stand in doubt." - Sun Tzu, The Art of War

“MAMMON!”

“YIPE!”

…Did he just yelp? Do demons yelp like dogs when they're surprised, and I've just never noticed it before?

“Oh! Hehehe… Mishka! It's, uh… it's just you, right? Lucifer isn't with you?”

Oh, now THAT'S a reassuring question. “Just me. Want me to go get him?”

“NO!”

Didn't think so. Ugh. Fan-friggen-tastic. He hasn't looked this paranoid since that night he ass-dialed one of his witches, which means that whatever he's trying to steal from me this time, it's definitely bigger than a breadbox.

One night. I know the Devildom isn't exactly Kansas, but is ONE quiet night too much to ask?

Oblivious to the stack of books in my arms and the fact that I'm trying real hard to incinerate him with just my eyeballs, he just keeps right on talking. “No no no, we're good. Nothing to see here, hehehe. If it's just you, then… yeah. Ok, no problem!”

...So, he's elbow deep in my suitcase right now, and trying very hard to hide that fact with both his body and a smokescreen of rambling nonsense. I hope he hasn't stolen my Advil yet, cause I can already feel a headache coming on.

“You gotta be more careful! What if it wasn't me, huh? What if you'd snuck up on some no-name demon that didn't know who you were? Keep that up, and you’re gonna get eaten for sure! I ain't always gonna be around to protect you, ya know!”

Well, he's managed to extricate his arms in a maneuver that could have almost been called subtle (by which I mean he didn't upturn my entire stock of worldly possessions on the floor), so… good for him, I guess?

“Some of these weaker demons are real skittish, ya know! Startle the wrong one, and BOOM! Hear that?! That's a human with no arms left, that’s what that is! You should really wear a little bell or somethin’, so I know – I mean, uh, we know… you're coming!”

“…A little bell, huh?”

Hmm…

…that might not be a bad idea. 

“Yeah! Or a beeper, or a blinking light, or…” 

It's hard to focus on his list when he's trying to flip my suitcase closed with one foot. He looks like a dumbass flamingo.

“So, uh… What're you doing here, Mishka?”

Oh, for crying out loud. 

“This is my room, Mammon. I'm here - in my room - because this is where I study. In my room. What are you doing here?”

“Nothin! I wasn’t - I mean, it wasn't anything bad, see, I just noticed the other mornin that you didn't have - and not cause I was pryin’ or nothin', just cause it's my job to keep an eye on you – which is really cuttin' into my Mammon-Time, ya know, and I ain't even getting’ paid for it, so you're lucky that…”

And off he goes. You’d think demons, of all creatures, would have a natural flair for spinning yarns, but Mammon tells lies like a window-licking four year-old. Broken lamp? Nuh uh, wasn't me. It was Santa Claus. I saw him.

And I can't even call him out on his bullshit, because it would break his sweet, idiot heart if I told him Santa isn't real. 

Ugh. I wonder what he stole from me this time, anyway?

That’d make, what, the… third time this month? Oh, no. Fourth. Definitely the fourth, after I had to buy my own shoes back from Majolish last week. (Which was fun. If you thought trying to get a refund from Comcast was a bitch, try a retail outlet run by literal, horn and tail demons.)

His antics were tolerable, when I first ended up down here, because he never used to actually take anything. Sure, he'd break into my room every few days, go rooting through my bags, even pocket anything even remotely shiny like an over-stimulated ferret – but he'd always hang around until I caught him. It was like a game, and I didn't mind it one bit. It was cute, in a pathetic sort of way.

Lately, though, he's been upping the ante, stealing everything I own that isn't nailed down (and one mirror that actually was), and since all I really own are my schoolbooks, my RAD uniform and the outfit I was wearing that night a portal wreathed in hellfire opened up in my dorm room, it isn't like I've got any new or exciting inventory to interest him. (Case point: he's stolen the same algebra text book from me three separate times now.) I always get my stuff back, in the end, but he's making it more difficult (and expensive) every single time.

It didn't get really bad until I'd made my pact with Lucifer. I'd almost say he was jealous, except… I dunno, ‘jealous' isn't the right word for it. Possessive, maybe? That would better suit the Avatar of Greed, wouldn't it? I mean, who ever said that money was the only thing you could be greedy for? When Mammon sees something he wants, he has to have it. Why should he treat me any differently? 

I'm even guessing that's why none of my other pacts bothered him: I was still his. I was bound to all of them, but Mammon was the first, and Mammon was the most powerful; they could tease him and berate him, but not one of them could challenge him. Not for real, anyway. (It still boggles my brain that in an all-out brawl between Satan and Mammon, Mammon would win. How is Mammon the second strongest of all seven?? Has somebody fact- checked that? Are we all absolutely sure it’s right??) Anyway, it didn't matter how many pacts I made: Mammon was the only one who could really keep me safe, and I needed him.

…But then I took Lucifer, and that changed everything. Now, every time I come back down here, he OH FUCK ME RUNNING SIDEWAYS, what the hell is he palming off my dresser?!

“Stop that!”

“Stop what?! I ain't doin' nothin'!”

I'm starting to appreciate why his brothers roll their eyes whenever he walks into a room. I'm getting sick of this crap after a month; I have no idea how they've put up with it for five thousand years. It's a miracle nobody's murdered him in his sleep.

The thing is, I get it. I'm not an idiot. He likes me. A lot. I know it, he knows it, Lord Diavolo knows it, his brothers know it (even Levi knows it, so you know he's sending signals clear enough to be picked up from Saturn) – everybody and their mother knows that he likes me. Demon or not, he's a flustered little boy in the schoolyard, hiding spiders in my pigtails and shoving my face into the mud because his sweet little heart’s got its first crush and his stupid, stupid brain has no idea what to do about it. 

…Oh, geez. Really, Mammon? 

He knows I can see him, right?

“MAMMON! PUT THAT DOWN!”

“GAH!”

My hair brush hits the floor, very conspicuously and VERY loudly, from someplace behind his back. That doesn't count as ‘putting it down,’ exactly, but I'll forgive him that one, at least, if only because his frustrated expression is telling me that his hands hadn't asked his permission before obeying me all on their own.

His frustration, by the way, is almost as arousing as his unwilling obedience. Demons can't resist temptation, but I can – and he’s lucky that's true, otherwise the Great Mammon would've spent every second since our pact hogtied naked on my bedroom floor.

That would keep him from stealing my stuff, after all.

“Ah hehehe… how did that get there? It's a good thing I found it! You should really be more careful with your stuff, Mishka, ‘specially since ya packed so light and all; like, you're supposed to visiting for the weekend, and all you bring’s one shirt, four socks, two shoes, thirty-seven bucks, three…

Ok, first: Fuck off. This isn't a visit, Lucifer dragged my ass down here, and Second: should it concern me that the Avatar of Greed has an encyclopedic knowledge of everything I own?

…Meh, I guess it shouldn't surprise nor concern me. Of course he does. He likes me, right? This is how he shows it. The more important question, of course, is:

If his thieving bothers me so much, why don't I just command him to stop?

Ah, but that should be obvious by now, shouldn't it?

Yeah, you guessed it. In spite of… well, everything… I like him, too.

Very, very much.

I want him to want me. I want him to keep watching me out of the corner of his eye, like I was a museum treasure worth doing prison time to possess. I want him to keep breaking into my room at midnight, if that's the only way his ego will let him ask if he can stay until dawn.

I want him. 

And he wants me.

The only thing in the way is denial so deep you could swim to Egypt in it. In that vein, I've been toying with a screwy little idea, something that might just SON OF A WHORE

“MAMMON! COME HERE!”

“UGH! You know I hate that one! Quit pullin’!”

“Show me what you have!” …Ugh, I feel like I'm talking to a puppy that just ate a bag of marbles. “Drop it… DROP IT.”

He does - and now I'm gonna fucking kill him.

It's not socks. It's not my hairbrush, my DDD, my Algebra text, or even my pants. 

“…That's the Art of War. Satan gave me that book at Diavolo's.”

“Is it? This old thing? Geez, he could've at least gotten you something ni-"

“STOP. THAT'S IT. MAMMON, I'VE HAD IT. Put back everything you've stolen tonight, and-"

“Wait, seriously?!”

…Oh, yeah. Forgot who I was dealing with for a second there. “Put back everything you've stolen **from me** tonight (that one should be doable), and come with me. Is Majolish open this late?”

“Uhh… well, yeah. Sure it is. Everything's open late down here.” He falls into step beside me, as casually as if he didn't just try to sidestep out of my bedroom with his pockets full. “Whatcha need in the middle of the night?”

“I don't need anything. You need something.”

“Me?! Well yeah, sure I do,” he laughs, “I need everything! But, uhh… see, the thing is, I'm a little short tonight, and – “

“Don't worry, you great idiot. I'm buying.”

I might not be a sorcerer in the conventional sense, but those are magic words insofar as Mammon is concerned.

Abracadabra.

“HAHA! There's my human! You're the greatest! Alright, so, hold on… I've got a list on here somewhere,” and just like that, he's scrolling through his DDD with the understated panic of a kid trying to dig up his Christmas list before Santa leaves the mall, “AH! Here it is. One sec, I'll send it to you so we can-"

“I'm not buying **you** anything,” I clarify. “I'm buying something **for** you, **for** me. I've been buying my own stuff back from your pawn shops for weeks, and neither my bank account nor my brain can take much more of it. I'm tired of this gradeschool horseshit, Mammon, and it stops tonight. We're going to Majolish, right now, so I can buy back one last thing – my goddamn sanity. And let's get one thing straight - I am buying… but **you're** the one who’s gonna fucking pay for it.”


	2. Don't buy a kayak that's 50% off (Unless you can swim)

“Asmo?!”

“Mishka! You’re back!! That’s great!! But… It's the middle of the night; what are you doing out here?! Those gorgeous eyes will get all puffy if you don't get enough sleep!”

Before I've even opened my arms, he's swept me literally off my feet. I almost **hate** how goddamn **good** he makes me feel.

I never really saw much in Asmo when I made my pact with him, but at some point when I wasn't paying attention, the sneaky bugger won me over. He might not be able to charm me with magic, but he's been working on it the old fashioned way since the day I left, and he's good at it. Frighteningly good. His greetings alone make me feel like he's spent the whole day just waiting to see me again. He delivers compliments with such nonchalant sincerity that I can't help but half-believing them. The empty air left behind after he hugs me feels colder than it should.

He's like that stereotypical gay best friend - except that I can fuck him wherever I want.

Which makes him, among other things, incredibly convenient.

“I was just gonna say the same thing to you, Asmo. What are you even doing here?? Your skin can't handle late night air; you should be in bed, cocooned in warm silk, making some lucky demon's dreams come true.”

“Ooh, now that sounds delightful,” he purrs, right into my ear, “but what if it was some lucky human, instead? I'm no genie, but if you rub me juuust the right way, I can make every last one of **your** dreams come true.”

…

OK ladies and gentlemen, that's a wrap. Show’s over, we're done here. I'll deal with Mammon some other time, I need to spend the rest of tonight wrapped in black silk sheets, four satin wings and one great big

“Hey hey hey! Hands off! Mishka’s here with me, so shoo! You're not sharing my tab, Asmo; Mishka's only got enough cash to spoil one demon at a time!”

Awww, look at that. My hero, swooping in to rescue me from a night of sinful debauchery with the Avatar of Lust. How would I ever survive without him?

Hmm… funny thing is, he really did just save me, didn't he?

…god, I really do love his stupid ass.

Asmo must know when his spell’s been broken, too, because he sighs like his one true love just sailed off into the sunset and finally lets me go. “Ugh. Did you have to bring him along?”

“Actually, yeah. He's the only reason I'm here.”

“Oh, Mishka; you should know better! Don't encourage him! If you keep buying him things, he'll never leave you alone.”

“I know. Trust me, I know. Don't worry, though; I'm not buying him anything. I brought him here to teach him a lesson.”

“Well, it's about time! What did my idiot brother do this time?”

“Same as always.”

That answer always elicits the exact same sigh, no matter which brother I'm talking to. “Ah. The algebra book again?”

“The Art of War.”

Asmo goes so pale, so fast, that I'm a little worried he's about to pass out. “…no. No! He wouldn't dare. That was Satan's gift; even Mammon knows better than to-"

“He absolutely does not. He will, though. That's why we're here. I've tried talking to him, threatening him, bribing him - I'm running out of ideas.”

“Have you tried hanging him by his ankles? That always seems to work for Lucifer.”

“Not yet… but kinda… well… yeah, actually. Something exactly like that. I haven't been able to fix this with any human solutions, so I figured, you know… when in the Devildom...”

“Do as the demons do? Oh ho ho, Mishka! You're downright adorable: have I told you that yet tonight? So your plan is… what, exactly? Cut off his hands? Boil him alive?”

Asmo's eyes sparkle when he gets excited, like a fluffy little kitten about to viciously murder something small and helpless. 

“Nothing that'll hurt him, Asmo. Put your horns away.”

“Bah, you're too nice.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“If I hurt him,” I clarify, “Lucifer'll kill me."

“Lucifer adores you, and you know it." He crosses his arms and heaves a sigh that seems to come all the way up from his toes. "I get your point, though. So let's see: You brought him to Majolish, at half past midnight, to teach him a lesson, by…?”

“Torturing him.”

“Oooh! I like the sound of that. I'm in.” (Wait, was he invited??) “Tell me everything.”

“Wait wait wait! Asmo, BACK OFF. Mishka, what're you talkin' about? Who’re we torturing? Someone owe you money or something? We're gonna finish shopping first, right?” 

Oh, Mammon. Welcome back. I thought we'd lost you.

…He's already filled a shopping cart. I left him unattended for… what? Three minutes?? Does he think he's on a game show? How is that even possible?! Three minutes! A whole goddamn cart!

…Is that a fucking kayak?!

“I'M NOT BUYING YOU A GODDAMN KAYAK, MAMMON! Did you hear a single word I said on the way over here?”

“Of course! What kinda low-life demon do ya take me for?! You said I needed something from Majolish, and you were buying!”

“Uh huh. And…?”

He frowns. “…there was more?”

…my brain hurts.

“I told you not to encourage him,” Asmo sighs.

“Mammon, put all that stuff back. NOW. Asmo, you know this place well, right?”

“Every nook and cranny! The hottest fashions are on the sixty-seventh floor, but the newest ones are on sixty-three, and the most popular ones are on sixty-two; makeup is fifty-three through fifty-nine, which might seem like too much, but – oh! - SinCoture just launched a whole new line of ShadowSea™ eyeshadow at midnight,” (wait, did he go shopping at midnight for eyeshadow??), “and I know the perfect shade for you! You'll look fabulous! Trust me; looking as good as I do isn't an accident, it's a science; you need just the right balance of-"

“Good,” I interrupt, before he can sucker me into a demonic makeover, “Good, yes… I'm sure you do, but I'm here for something specific. Demons know what BDSM is, right?”

“OH! Oh Mishka,” Asmo grins, and his eyes are doing that murder-sparkle again, “of course we do! Do you really have to ask? We demons are the very embodiment of temptation; every fantasy that shames you to admit you even dreamt, we whispered it in your ear. Do I know what it is,” he chuckles. “My dear, remember who you're taking to: I invented the **whole scene.** ”

Yeah, I kinda figured as much. “Let me guess.” I can't keep from smirking at the thought. “You're a bottom.”

He giggles at the suggestion, slips one arm around my waist and leans down to whisper his answer right in my ear. “You wish. This is the Avatar of Lust you're talking about, beautiful. I know what I want… I know how to get it… and I **know,** ” he tightens his grip, “when to **take** it.”

Oh shit, he's doing it again. Abort! Abort! Abort, before I get bogged down in fantasies of all the dark, sinful things the Avatar of Lust would do to me if I was bound down on my knees, naked and helpless, begging with every breath for him to stop… 

…or for more…

…or maybe…

Shit.

Mammon! MAMMON! Where's my hero when I need him??

Oh.

Right.

Returning a kayak.

Because my hero is an idiot. 

“Asmo! Let's stay focused, shall we?”

“Whatever you like,” he purrs. “But perhaps, when you're finished with Mammon, you and I can-"

“ASMO! Focus!” I twist my way out of his embrace before I fall too far down the rabbit hole. “I came here to punish a demon, and you're not lucky enough to be it. _Yet._ " I snap my fingers in front of his nose. "Bondage toys. They sell that kind of stuff here?”

“Absolutely. Sixty-eight, and half of sixty-nine. What do you need?”

“A collar.”

“That’s it?” He sounds disappointed. “I know you’re trying to think like a demon, Mishka, but that's pretty amateur. If you need ideas, all you need to do is ask! I happen to know that they've got an absolutely devious St Andrew’s cross on sale upstairs right now, one strong enough to keep even the most stubborn demon in his -.”

“I'm sure they do, but all I need is a collar. One that'll look good on Mammon.”

“He'll never wear a-"

“He doesn't have a choice. If he's dumb enough to steal from someone that can order him around, then he's gonna wear whatever the hell I want him to wear.”

“Oooh! **Now** you're starting to sound like a demon! Alright then… when you say “look good", you mean…?”

“When he shows his demon form, he decks himself out in-"

“Chains and black leather,” Asmo grins. “Got it. You wait right here; I know just the piece you want.”

Ohohoh, I’m **sure** you do.

…Now where the hell is Mammon?!

“Receipt?! You want a receipt?! I haven't even paid for it yet! Just… just take it back, before my human gets cranky…. What? No way! It's my…my pet! I'm fattening it up! Just…just take the damn thing back, ok?”

…Oh, right.

Forget I asked.


	3. Thanks, Asmo.  Now I can't stop laughing, either.

“What're we doin’ in the woods? It's dark out here! …Even darker than normal, I mean. Oh! Haha, I get it! This where you're gonna meet the guy who owes you money, right?”

... I've fallen for a moron.

That's great. That's just great.

Aren't demons supposed to be savvy? Sly? Master manipulators? Devious denizens of the blackest nether, tempting foolhardy humans into selling their souls for scratch tickets and blowjobs?

…Yeah. I think mine might be broken.

“Something like that," I mutter. "Mammon, kneel down.”

“Gah!” The command drops him to him to his knees, and all the yelling, whimpering and struggling in the world won't let him stand up again. “Hey! What’re you doing to me! I can't stand up!”

“That would be your pact, brother,” Asmo sighs. “If Mishka wants you on your knees, that’s where you’ll stay. Do you really not understand how these things work? This can't possibly be your first, can it?”

Poor Mammon. I almost feel sorry for him. (Almost.) He's struggling against whatever invisible force is keeping him down; cursing under his breath and using both hands to try and force his legs to cooperate, and… I can't help myself. I kneel in front of him and slip one hand up inside his shirt, over his stomach and up across his heaving chest. 

…Mmmm. Fuck me, he's hot. Temperature-wise, I mean. The force he's exerting is pouring off his body in beating waves, warming my fingers like I'd dipped them in hot wax. Beel might be ripped, but Mammon models for a reason, and I can trace the contour of each of his abs by feel alone. Every last one… and each of them, perfect. If I was blind, I'd swear that he was carved of marble; that it would be an affront to the artist if I stopped my wandering fingers before they'd properly appreciated every last inch of his-

“Hey! Quit that!”

He grabs my wrist, hard enough that my hand goes numb, and wrenches my hand away. Geez! He's… holy crap, ok, he's unbelievably strong. His dipshit antics make it easy to forget that he really is a demon, deep down inside – and a bloody powerful one, at that. He could tear my whole hand off without batting an eye, but despite the boiling anger in his eyes, he's being really, **really** careful not to actually hurt me. “I ain't nobodies plaything, ya hear me?! Just cause my body does whatever you tell it to do don't mean that I'm just gonna sit here and let you feel me up! Don’t make me eat you, Mishka! ‘Cause I… I totally will!”

No you won't.

“I don't think so. Put your hands behind your back, Mammon.”

“NGGH! Dammit!” He crosses his wrists behind his back, but not because he wants to. “Stop it! You know I can't… I can't fight this!”

“….Oh, Mishka,” Asmo purrs into my ear, “may I… may I touch him? Please say yes. Scumbag or not, Mammon does have a downright delectable body, but he's so uptight about sharing it… Five minutes, that’s all I need. I just want to lay my hands on his chest and feel… mmmm, everything…”

I almost concede, just to get the horny demon off my back.

…but…

Huh.

Mammon's not the only demon I can control, now is he?

“No, Asmodeus.” He starts at the sound of his full name, probably because he already knows what's coming next. “Keep your hands off him... and kneel down.”

“Oh… OH! Nngg!”

That's two.

Even bound down on his knees, Mammon squirms around to face his brother, flips his hair out of eyes and snickers. “Yeah! Feel that?! Sucks, right? Now you can't stand up either! Welcome to my world!”

...Except that Asmo is handling **his** invisible bondage like a grown-up, either because this isn't the first time he's been forced to his knees, or because it's straight-up turning him on.

…Ok, maybe grown-up wasn't the word I was looking for. Pervert. That's it. He's handling his invisible bondage like a good, respectable pervert, judging by how far back his eyes are rolled and the breathless little Mmmmms and Ahhhhs that keep slipping between his lips every times he squirms in place. His breathing is somehow too fast and too quiet at the same time, like someone just broke into his house and he’s trying to call 911 from the closet without making any noise. He's not fighting it, but he is straining juuuuust hard enough to feel himself being immobilized over and over again. Does anything **not** turn him on?? If I backhanded him across the face right now, I bet he'd have to change his pants.

Ugh. Whatever. At least he's distracted, right?

“Alright, Mammon. Let's get this over with.”

“Hey! What are you… what did I do?! Come on, ya could at least tell me what's goin’ on!”

Awww. I'm actually flattered. The anxiety swimming in his eyes is a breed he usually reserves for Lucifer, so I must be doing something right. 

“I already told you everything,” I begin… but of course, he didn't hear a word of it, did he? Betcha all that made it from my mouth to his ears to his brain was: I'm buying; blahblahblah; wow mammon, you sure are amazing; twenty-five minutes of that noise Charlie Brown's teacher makes. “You’ve been screwing with me since I got back, and I'm sick of it," I explain. (Again.) "You're driving me **crazy**. I've changed the lock on my room seven times in a month! Seven! The locksmith invited me to his daughter's birthday party!”

“Aw, come on! Hey, I'm… I'm sorry, ok! I'll stay out of your room, I promise! Even out of your stuff! …ya know, unless you leave it open or something; then I'd have to make sure that nobody, uh… that none of your stuff went missing, cause -"

“Mammon! Shut. Up.”

Well, how do you like that? I guess ‘shut up' is as much a command as an exclamation, and our pact can't tell the difference. (Or it doesn't care.) He literally chokes on whatever he was about to say, then tries a half-dozen times to spit out a sentence (or even a single coherent word) before giving up and loosing a plaintive whine more suited to a chastised retriever puppy than an arch-demon.

He finally stops struggling, but even that's suspicious. If I didn't know better, I'd almost think that he's making a poignant effort to look as pitiful as humanly (demonly? demonically?) possible, with his head hung between his shoulders and his hair hanging in front of the most professional puppy-dog eyes I've ever seen.

…is he whimpering?

What a little bitch. He deserves mercy even less than he deserves a twelve foot kayak.

“Oh, Mammon,” Asmo grumbles, from so unexpectedly close to my hip that I nearly bolt off into the woods, “you're pathetic. A waste of a perfectly good pair of horns. If you were-"

“Be nice, Asmo, or I'll buy you a collar of your own and chain you two idiots together until you learn to play nice.”

He's kneeling beside me, practically leaning every part of his body that can lean against any part of mine that'll hold him up, and he goes rigid at the threat. For a few seconds, he holds his breath… but doesn't dare a single peep. Aha, so there is **one** thing, at least, that doesn't turn him on. Good to know.

Aww, now they both look nervous, as they damn well should. They're glancing at me, then at each other, then back again, and looking more and more insecure by the second. What's the matter, boys? Are you suddenly imagining all the dark, incestuous things I could force you to do to each other, were I so inclined? Wondering, perhaps, just how amateurish I really am? When demons walk around in public, they hide their wings and horns and tails.

What do you think **I’m** hiding?

“Oh, Asmo,” I purr, high on power I really shouldn't be wielding, “relax, beautiful. Worrying too much will give you wrinkles. You're off the hook: just be a good boy, mkay?” I wind his strawberry hair between my fingers, then grab a handful and wrench his head back. 

He gasps, but makes no move to stop me. The only command I've given him is to kneel, but he has his hands clasped behind his back as tightly as if they'd been shackled there.

Not a bottom, my **ass.**

“I'll play with you later,” I whisper into his ear, “but only if you deserve it. **Behave yourself.** ”

I'm either about to win, or have my spleen carved out. 

50/50.

“…Yes, Mishka,” he breathes. “I’ll… I'll be good. Mmmm… I'll be **whatever** you want me to be...”

…I can't believe that worked. 

…Uh oh. I hope I didn't just create a bigger problem than I solved. The last thing I need is another love-sick lamb following me to school each day. 

I give Asmo a little kiss on the top of his head, ignore his horn-dog moan, then leave him be. He's not why I'm here.

He's not the one I want.

“Don't worry, Mammon. I haven't forgotten about you. You're the reason we're all here tonight, after all.” I crouch down and take his glasses off so I can see him eye-to-eye, and for the first time since we met, I think I actually have his full, undivided attention. “I've tried being nice. I've tried telling, asking, yelling, bargaining, even begging. The only thing I haven't tried… is **dominating** you.”

The anxiety in his eyes is desperation, now. They're so wide that he's not even blinking anymore. He's trying to answer me, shaking his head and pleading with his eyes and mouthing something I'll never figure out, no matter how many times or how slowly he repeats it.

“Hush, Mammon. You can't talk your way out of this one, so relax. Just listen. Over the last few days, you've taken everything I own, one piece at a time. I finally understand that I can't stop you – nobody can – so here: This is the last thing you'll ever take from me. It's all yours."

He hasn’t seen the collar his little brother picked out for him yet, so I hold it out to let him appreciate it. It's beautiful and it's simple; thick, embroidered black leather decorated all the way around with a silver jewelry chain and a handful of heavy rings. It'll be glaringly conspicuous against his street clothes (and a thousand times worse than that against his RAD uniform), but it'll look so natural when he's in his demon form that even he might forget he's being forced to wear it against his will.

His eyes widen. “MmmMmmmm! MMMM!!”

Cute. No? Is that what that means, sweetheart? Well that's too cotton-pickin’ bad.

“Would you be a dear and tip your chin up for me?”

He scowls and does the exact opposite of that, because of course he does.

Sigh. My stubborn demon and his stupid game. Guess it's my move. 

“You know I'm just going to force you to obey, don't you? If I didn't know better, I'd almost think you're being such a little pain in my ass just because you're secretly hoping I'll do just that. Fine. You win. Lift your chin up, Mammon. There you go. Now don't move. Freeze, just the way you are.”

“HNH! mmmMM!”

God, that’s hot. Mmmmmm, indeed.

“…There's a good boy.” I take my time tracing the way from his navel to his neck (because screw him, he stopped me the first time, but all he can do now is squirm), then gently brush his hair out of the way and wrap the collar around his neck. “Hmm. This thing has a spot for a padlock… but I don't think we'll need to go that far. Not yet, anyway. There. How's that? Too tight?”

He whimpers, but I can't tell if it's an answer or just generic misery. I can't even read his eyes, because his head is tipped so far back that he's being forced to stare at the ceiling.

“Oh, right. You can't even nod right now, can you? No problem. What's the old rule of thumb for collars? You should be able to get… what, two fingers underneath it?” Ok, let's go up a notch. It looks better when it's skin tight, sure, but I'll sacrifice a little in the way of appearance if it means he'll be comfortable. If it chafes, he might actually **want** to take it off – and that would ruin everything. “That should be about right.” I buckle it closed, adjust it so it's perfectly centered, then stand up to admire my work.

His terrified eyes are all that he can move, and the way they're following me around makes it feel like I'm being watched by a haunted portrait in a Halloween funhouse.

Perfect. It looks perfect on him, like it was always meant to be there, like his bare throat was an empty hole in a puzzle, waiting for just the right piece to be whole. The stark black leather makes his white hair shine like sea foam wherever it rolls overtop, and his pale skin glow like moonlight underneath.

It's beautiful.

He's beautiful.

…he was an angel, once.

I wrap three fingers through the center ring and pull him up, until he's stretched as high as he can go without lifting his knees off the ground. (I don't think I've ever appreciated just how powerful the magic of these pacts really is until just now – I can move any part of him, in any way I like, except his legs. It feels like he's set in concrete from his knees to his ankles.)

(Which could also be fun. Mental note for later.)

I'm about a head taller than he is right now, and I spend the rest of our “conversation" glaring down at him, divining whatever answers I can read in his terrified eyes. “Do you know what this is?” I tug on the ring, just to be sure he knows what I'm talking about. 

_…Yes? …uh… maybe? I think?_

_…is this a trick question??_

“Well yes," I sigh, "of course; it's a collar. **Your** collar, Mammon. It’s **your** collar,” I press my lips against his ear, “and you **cannot** take it off. Ever.” Oh good, he looks mortified. He might be denser than lead, but at least recognizes a command when he hears one. “If anyone else tries to take it off, by any means, you'll do everything in your power – and I mean **everything** – to stop them. Do you understand?”

I'll take that desperate, strangled sob as a yes.

“Good. Very good. So now that it's official… Do you know what it means to be collared?”

_…no, no I have no idea and I don't wanna know please just let me go I swear I'll be good_

(Or something like that)

“It means you're **mine** , Mammon. You wear your collar so that every person you meet will know, without a doubt, that I've chosen you, and **only** you, to be mine.”

Ahh, there we go. That got his attention. The look he's giving me is no longer dead-eyed terror; now it's the guilty, furtive glances of a married man pushing his way into a porn shop with blacked out windows. He's exactly where he wants to be, and hates himself for being there.

That's right, boy. Understand yet? We both know what you want, and if you can't bring yourself to ask for it, then I'm going to drop you to your knees and force you to take the whole goddamn thing.

“Exactly. It's a symbol. It means that **you** ,” he follows my finger with his eyes, “belong to **me** , now. I **own** you. You're **my** demon. My **slave**. My **pet**.”

“MmMmm….?! Mmm!!”

“Hush. Nobody asked you.”

Well, that's cute. Being dismissed like that irked him so badly that he flexed every muscle from his hips to his shoulders. What's he up to? Is he trying to struggle? Did he forget he can't move? 

He's so goddamn adorable. 

“Oh, calm down; you've got nothing to worry about. This doesn't change anything. I'm gonna let you back up in a minute, and once I do, you're free to go. I'm not gonna suddenly start bossing you around; I could've been doing that since day one, if I'd wanted to. Our pact controls you, not a cute little collar.”

“Bah! I **said** you were too nice! What's the point in collaring him if you're not going to domin-"

FOR FUCK'S SAKE

“Shut UP, Asmodeus.”

…Good god, that’s convenient. I ignore his seething glare (shutting up a narcissist is the most unforgivable of sins, I guess) and lay one hand on his head, just to show there's no hard feelings. It only takes a few seconds of gentle caresses, through his hair and down the nape of his neck, before he's forgotten all about being angry and starts snuggling into my hand.

He's so easy, and I don't hate that.

“Your little brother does bring up a good question, though: what's the point? How’s a hunk of leather and steel supposed to stop you from driving me three ways to the nuthouse?”

Asmo nods his agreement, then glances up and signs something.

“…you speak sign language?”

He nods again, winks, and signs something long and complicated.

I only understood one sign, and it wasn't exactly appropriate. “I'm not gonna ask why or how you speak ASL, Asmo, but I don't speak a word of it. So give it up, and settle down. You’re fine. You can watch. Trust me, darling. You won't be disappointed.”

Now Asmo's purring, Mammon's trembling, and the night is finally going my way.

“For now, Mammon, this is it; just a humiliating reminder that I own you, and that I expect you to keep your greedy little hands away from my property. If you can't do that, though… well, that’s where this gets serious. If I catch you breaking into my room, or stealing from me, or lying to me, or pawning any of my stuff, or…anything, really… then that collar’s gonna feel a whole lot heavier. For every new offense, you're going to get a new Rule. These Rules will be commands, permanent commands that our pact won't let you resist; behavior modifications that'll gradually turn you from a scheming scumbag into a proper, respectable slave.”

“MmmMMMM!?”

“Exactly. But I'm sure it won't come to that, right? I mean, it's not like you have to solve for x or get a day job... all you need to do is behave yourself. Piece of cake, right? ...And Asmo… stop laughing, would you?”

But he can't, and I don't blame him.


	4. I'd pay $20 to find out.

Ugh. Another all-nighter. My poor body can't handle these like it used to, and I know it'll wreak havoc with my schedule… but if there's one thing I've learned from living with demons, it's the fine art of surrendering to temptation.

Every fading headstone was once a human with all of its own quaint little problems, struggling through life, agonizing over choices, trying to be good… And for what? Look around. Nobody cares. Their problems - and their choices - are irrelevant and long forgotten. If they didn't enjoy themselves, what the hell was the point?

…Would you listen to me? What a melodramatic way to justify staying up too late, eh?

I haven't been to bed yet, or even to my room. After Mammon bolted out of Majolish like he'd just shoplifted a small fortune (which I have no doubt he actually did), Asmo… ahem… ‘walked me back to the House.’

(Which means, of course, that my nails look great, my thighs hurt like a bitch, my wrists are one giant handcuff bruise and I can't stop smiling like a medicated twit.)

I'm finally on my way to bed (for real, this time), and have spent every step of the way fantasizing about how warm and soft and snuggly my world is about to become. My sexual daydreams aren't even **this** vivid. I can feel the coolness of my pillow against my cheek, smell the delicate flowers that cocoon my beautiful bed, breathe in every…

…son of a bitch.

Five hours. He lasted a whopping five hours and twenty-six minutes. I mean, sure, I expected him to come, just… not so soon. (Reminds me of my prom night.)

Alright, well, he we go again, I guess. My handsome train-wreck of a demon has got himself stationed outside my door… and somehow, he's roped Levi into joining him. They haven't noticed me yet, and though I still can't turn invisible, I can hide behind this potted plant like a **boss**.

Poof. Good as gone.

…Mammon's wearing a scarf. Not a fashionable accessory, either – a thick, fluffy, the-air's-so-cold-my-lungs-are-burning winter scarf. Guess that was all he could find on such short – wait, is that **my** scarf?! Ugh. Of course it is. I thought I'd lost that thing six damn months ago. Shoulda known better, I guess. Now, I get that he's trying to hide his collar, but does he actually think **that's** going to prompt fewer questions? The idiot looks like he got called off the bench at the last second to goaltend a game of pond hockey.

I don't see any frozen ponds in this hallway, though, which begs the all-important question: what the hell are they doing here?

I hold my breath so I can listen.

“…can't get inside without you,” Mammon's saying.

“What are you talking about?! You pick this lock three times a week; you don't need me. Even if I wanted to help – and I don't! - I'd just get in the way. Break in yourself!”

“I can't! I'm not allow… nevermind why! Come on, this is important! I just have to get inside for a few minutes; long enough to look around, that's all. I ain't gonna take nothin', I swear!”

“MAMMON! Your fingers are crossed!”

“Huh? Are not!”

“I can SEE them! You're gonna get us both in trouble, you stupid scumbag. Why do you even want to get inside?! Mishka's still up the human world, there's nothing in there that-"

“Nuh uh! She came back last night.”

“Whaaaat?! Mishka's back?! Wait… how do you know that before I do? She always texts me first – we have a system! A SYSTEM!” Aww. Levi always sounds like he's one sour grape away from bawling his eyes out. “Why didn't she come to see me? Where is she?!”

“Hey, calm down! She just got back, ok; she's out tonight with… oh, eww!… not important! Don't make me think about it! You just gotta help me out here, okay? Here. Take these,” he pushes something into Levi's hand, “open the door, and invite me in! Easy peasy, right?”

“Wha….?? What makes you think I know how to pick a lock?! The only room I want to be inside is **mine!** ”

“Quit bein’ such a whiner! Look, Mishka just… uh… texted me! Yeah! That's it! There's somethin’ in her room that she needs, so we need to get it for her! Think of how grateful she'll be! Our girl needs help, and you're comin to the rescue! You'll be a hero!”

“A hero…? Me??” Uh oh. Levi's starting to blush, which usually happens right before he cracks. “…No way!” (Phew.) “I'm not falling for it. Not this time. Nice try, but I'm not as stupid as you look!”

“Levi! I ain't lyin' to – wait, what did you say about my face?! Ok, look, I ain't playin' games tonight, alright? Mishka needs our help, and I can't do it without you. This ain't a scheme, it's… uhh, you know… just like that, uhh… that scene! Yeah! It's just like that scene in that, uh… show that you like! You know the one!”

Don't fall for it, Levi. You're smarter than that. You know what he's-

“Oooooh! Hahaha! You're talking about the second season of _Every Time I Sleep I Keep Traveling into the Future One Day at a Time, and Now I Can Make Predictions That Are Right Nearly Half the -_ "

Damn it, you gullible otaku.

“Exactly! You got it! So get to work! Look, I'll talk ya through it. The pokey stick goes in the top and the little squiggly part goes in the bottom…”

Oh, great. Now **Levi's** breaking into my room. Well played, Mammon. As annoyed as I am, though… I can't stop smirking. Hey, what can I say? He's mine, and it's actually a little arousing watching my demon outwit a worthy opponent. Despite popular opinion, he is **not** , in fact, a moron. If he was, people would've stopped lending him money four thousand years ago.

Ok, well, I guess I'll hide here until they get in.

…

………..

……………..

…

Oh for fuck's sake. The Pink Panther song should be playing overtop of this debacle. This has to be the most bumbling break-in in the history of crime itself.

“No no no! Just hold it there!”

“I AM holding it there!”

“No, not THERE! THERE!!”

“WHERE'S THERE?!”

“RIGHT THERE!”

Maybe I should just sleep behind this plant. It’s a pretty nice plant.

“QUIT JIGGLIN' IT!”

“STOP GRABBING MY HANDS!”

Demon's Eleven, ladies and gentlemen.

“I'M NOT GRABBIN' YOUR-"

_CLICK._

“Oh!”

“Yes!”

The moment the door swings open, Mammon shoves Levi inside. “Now invite me in!”

“Invite you in?! What are you, a vampire? The door’s wide open!”

“Hey! Do ya want your stupid doll or not?! Invite me in!”

“It's not a doll!! How dare you call-!”

“LEVI!!!”

“Fine! Oooh Mammmoooonnnn, would you like to come in?”

Aaaaaaand they're gone.

I give them a few seconds to get into whatever trouble they're planning, then walk to my door and slip quietly inside. Neither of then notices. That's one thing about demons – they get this weird tunnel-vision when they're focused on something. Bet I could've strolled in with a four-piece mariachi band behind me, and they still wouldn't have heard me.

“What are we looking for?” Levi thinks he's whispering. 

He is not.

“It's gotta be in here somewhere…” Mammon’s already upturned my suitcase, emptied my dresser, pulled up the rug and flipped my mattress. That took…what? Two minutes?

I'm almost impressed.

“What are we looking for?? I can't help if I don't know GYAHH! MISHKA!!!”

“Evening, boys. Something I can help you find?”

Mammon jumps about a foot and a half. “Oh! Hey, you!! What are you doing back so…uhh…”

For a few seconds, everything is quiet. I can't tell which one looks guiltier.

Well, this is awkward.

Out of nowhere, Mammon points at his little brother. “Levi broke into your room!”

“WHAAAA?!”

“I tried to stop him! I told him, Mishka HATES it when people break into her room, but he wouldn't listen! Look, he's still got a lockpick in his hand! Levi, how could you?!”

“WHAA…?! But I didn't… I mean, I **did** , but only cause… ohhhh man! You… you set me up! YOU'RE SUCH A SCUMBAG!! This is SO not fair! Mishka hates me now!!”

“No I don't. Come here, Levi.” He slinks across the room with his proverbial tail between his legs. “How could I ever be mad at you?” I kiss his forehead, which is about all the physical affection he can handle, then step back just far enough to give his anxiety room to breathe. “I know this wasn't your idea. What did Mammon promise you?”

Awww. He's sniffling. “He has a limited edition, 4th series blue on black on blue Gurumi Chi collectable figure, from that time he modeled for the voice actor in-"

“Ahhhh.” Now it all makes sense. “Don't worry, Levi. He'll pay up. Won’t you, Mammon?”

“What?! No way!! This wasn't the deal; he got us caught! How come I gotta-"

Because I fucking said so, that's why.

Soon enough, he'll learn.

“Mammon,” I interrupt, as nonchalantly as I can, “what’s with the scarf? Expecting the Devildom to freeze over? You have to let me know if it does, ‘cause that means my Leafs just won the cup and I should be out partying like it's 1967.”

Mammon flushes an unnatural shade of red and wraps another turn of **my** scarf around his neck. Now he's just blue eyes and a mop of white hair, and somehow he **still** looks guilty. “Ahhh… hahaha! I was just kiddin', Levi! You know that, right? Of course ya do! Your big brother’s not gonna let you down; your doll… uhh… I mean, your… uhh… thing that looks like a doll but totally isn't is back in my room, so you should… ya know, go get it. Right now. Actually, on second thought, why don't I just go get it for ya? Yeah! You guys stay right here, and I'll-"

“Mammon,” I sigh, “you're not going anywhere. And take that stupid scarf off. You look ridiculous.”

All that bright red drains out of his face like he was bleeding from the ankles. “Mishka,” he hisses in my ear, “come on! That ain't funny! I can't take it off now; Levi's standin' right there!”

“And whose fault is that?” I grab an end and start unwinding.

“Aw, geez…” He stiffens up and clutches both hands up against his chest… but makes no move to stop me.

Ah. Much better. I loop two fingers through the ring on the front of his collar and politely, if insistently, urge him away from my open dresser.

Levi starts giggling. “Mammon… what are you wearing?”

“Hey, shaddup,” he snarls. “It's nothin!”

“It doesn't look like nothing. It looks like a dog collar,” Levi grins.

“Well it's not!”

“It totally is! Let me see!”

“No way! Get away from me!”

“It's not a dog collar,” I clarify, as Mammon yanks himself free and ducks behind me, “it's a people-collar. Much sturdier.”

“HEY! Quit takin' pictures! I ain't wearin' this stupid thing by choice, alright?! HEY! Are you listenin' to IS THAT A VIDEO DELETE THAT RIGHT NOW!”

As much as I love watching Mammon suffer (and I really, really do), I lay my hand on Levi's DDD and gently tip the camera towards the floor. “Go easy on him, Levi. He's still getting used to it. He's only had it on for… what? Four hours?”

“Five and a half,” Mammon mutters, as he flops down on my bed in a pacified huff and starts scratching underneath his collar. “Which is five and a half hours too long! Give me a break, Mishka! I'll stay out of your room, I swear! Just take it off!”

“Not happening.” I hop up next to him. “And shove over; you're taking up the whole bed.”

“Hey! I was here first! Find your own bed!”

“This IS my own bed. Shove OV…”

…..hmmmm……

Was that… an idea?

Why, I do believe that's exactly what it was.

Now I can't stop grinning, and it must look as crazy as it feels, because He Who Gives Nothing Away For Free took one look at me and couldn't give my half of the bed back fast enough.

“Why, thank you. Whelp, guess we might as well cut to the chase, eh? Are you ready, Mammon?”

“Huh? Ready? Now?? …With Levi watching??”

“What??” It takes me a few seconds to digest that one. “Oh, for – no, you horny idiot. Not for **that**. For **this**.” I lean in close, until I'm so painfully aware of the exact place our legs are touching that I nearly forget everything I have to say. Nearly, but not quite. “Mammon, Avatar of Greed,” I murmur into his ear, “so long as you're wearing my collar, you will stay off the furniture. All the furniture. Your place is on the floor, now. Understand?”

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?!” With a derisive snort, he stretches out like a starfish. Yeah, I get it. Now he's taking up his side, my side, and everything in between. “You're getting’ real cocky for a human, ya know that? I ain't doin’ nothin' just cause you – ow ow ow! What theOWOWOW!” He scrambles off the bed in a near-panic, gets tangled in the sheets and windmills right through my end table.

To his credit, Levi tears his eyes away from his DDD long enough to actually look concerned. “Mammon, are you ok?! What did I miss?”

Backed defensively against the wall and sucking back breaths like a winded thoroughbred, he jabs a finger at my bed. “That thing just stabbed me!”

Levi just blinks. “Mishka stabbed you?!”

“Huh? Mishka? No! Somethin’ inside the bed! There's somethin’ hidin' in the sheets! Mishka, be careful! Get off the bed right now!”

For someone who can calculate quarterly compounded interest in his head, you'd think he'd be better at putting two and two together. I oblige, though, if only because he looks legitimately terrified that I'm about to get murdered.

Mammon wastes no time, and starts ripping the sheets apart, looking for… uhh, I don’t know? A pint-sized demon with a pitchfork, maybe? “Get out here, ya little bastard! I'm gonna break your stupid face! You jab me in the ass ONE more time and I'm gonna beat you off so hard you won't walk straight for a week!”

…

Ladies and Gentlemen: the Avatar of Greed.

Something scaly snakes around my back and surreptitiously curls around my waist.

Hehehe. Levi's adorable. All my demons know that I'm enthralled by their wings and horns and tails, but Levi's the only one who goes through the trouble of transforming just to impress me. See, I told him **one** time how cute his tail is, and he's been milking the compliment ever since. Hey, if it worked once, it ought to work the next six-thousand times, right?

I let him tug me closer, until we're standing shoulder to shoulder, then absently massage the tip of his tail between my fingers while we both pretend it's not making him shiver.

“Mishka,” he whispers, “tell me what's going on. Is Mammon ok?”

“He's fine. We're just playing a little game, that’s all.”

“A game?”

“Mhmm. It's called, “Hands Off My Property, Dipshit. Now, every time he breaks one of society's rules, he has to live by a Rule of mine, instead.”

“Society’s rules? Like…”

“Like don't break into my goddamn room, for starters. Pretty sure that was literally the first thing on the list, actually.”

“Uh huh…” He's thinking fast. His eyes are flicking back and forth so quickly I can almost see him rearranging the facts like they were 3D holograms, spinning this one around, flipping that one upside-down, until he's fit everything together and pieced together the Big Picture. “And your rules are things like… stay off the furniture?”

“Heard that, did you? Well, yes. Exactly like that. Hopefully this'll be the kick in the ass he needs to – MAMMON! Get your claws out of my mattress! Lucifer'll have my hide if I have to ask for a new one! Here,” I slide over a chair (and wink at Levi), “chill out a minute. Nobody's hiding in my bed.”

“But… but somethin’ definitely stabbed me,” he sighs, as he drops into the chair, “I felt it! How're you ever supposed to get a good night's sleep if there's someonOWOWOWOW!!!”

Levi claps a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing as Mammon jumps up and shoves the chair away.

“What the…!? It stabbed me again!!” This time, though, he looks from the toppled chair, to the bed… then right at me. Theeeeere we go. He's got it now. “Oh no…”

Oh, yes.

“This is… this is crazy!! MISHKA!! What're you doin' to me?! How am I supposed to go to class if I can't sit down?!”

“You can sit down fine,” I smirk, “just not on the furniture. Enjoy your first rule, Mammon.”

“No way! You can't… Wait - My first what?! Oh, come on! What did I do??”

…

…he's being serious.

I massage my temples before they implode. “You broke into my room.”

“Like, literally two minutes ago,” Levi adds.

“Nuh uh! Get your facts straight, why don't ya! I didn't break into anywhere – Levi invited me into your room!”

“HEY! I only-" I lay a finger on Levi's lips to hush him. If they start fighting in my room, I can kiss more than just my end table goodbye. Fights between demons are, among other things, notorious for their inexcusable collateral damage. “Mammon. Despite what might think, I'm not an idiot. I know this was all your idea. Your loophole – clever as it was - isn't gonna save you, hun. I warned you not to break into my room, and you lasted… five hours?”

“…five and a half. Took me two hours just to convince Levi to leave his room,” he mutters. “See?! This is still all Levi's fault!” He whirls on his brother. “If you'd just come with me when I asked, we would've been long gone by now! YOU'RE SUCH A WUSS!”

…I don't like where this is going. The air in here is starting to tingle.

Levi, who’s much more confident in his demon form, steps up and stands his ground. A furious black miasma begins dripping off his shoulders and pooling at his feet. “GET A LIFE, MAMMON!! YOU SET ME UP!”

Uh oh.

My heart's pounding much too hard to be healthy, but I still force myself to step between them (because I like my room un-exploded). “Easy, Levi. You're ok. There's a good otaku,” I purr, as I tickle that sweet spot behind the base of his horns that he likes so much. “Don't let him get to you; he's an idiot. Who’s my sweetest little Shadow Lord, hmm?”

He stiffens up at the touch, then shivers and tightens his grip on my waist. “I am,” he mumbles, around a flush so bright you could land a plane by it. “…Ok, Mishka.” He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath to compose himself. His slender tail gradually relaxes, too - which is good, because I can finally take a deep breath again. “I'm ok. But there's still something I don’t understand. Mammon… if you knew Mishka was going to punish you for being in her room, why are we in here? What were you looking for??”

Finally cowed, Mammon scowls and touches his collar. “There has to be some way to get this stupid thing off; I just figured the key had to be in here, somewhere. I wasn’t gonna take nothing, I swear, I just… This is THE Mammon we're talkin' about, ok?? People look up to me! I can't be seen listenin’ to commands from a human; it'd take me a thousand years to live that down! Can you imagine a farmer obeyin’ orders from a cow?!” (Oh, wow, thanks so much for that) “No way, right? That reason enough for ya??”

Levi frowns, and for a second, I think he's about to come to his brother's defense.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

“If that's the truth,” Levi muses, “then why’d you steal her wallet?”

“Wait… he stole my what??” I flip my nightstand the right way up and yank open the top drawer. It is, expectedly, empty. “MAMMON! WHAT THE HELL?! You're gonna regret that,” I snarl. “You've been bullshitting me since the second I got back – so here! Enjoy your second rule, dumbass: so long as you're wearing my collar, everything you say to me will be the truth.”

Mammon's jaw drops. “WHAT?! BUT... BUT THAT'S TOTALLY FAIR!”

Levi and I exchange a look. He starts giggling. Somehow I manage to keep a straight face, but I should win an Oscar for the effort.

“Wait… what?” Mammon, looking way more confused than he ought to be (these dots aren't that hard to connect, are they? Should I get him a crayon?), shakes his head and tries again. “No no no, that's… that's not what I meant! I meant to say that I didn't just steal your wallet, so I don't- no, wait, that ain't right either! Oh, man!”

I glance at Levi. “He didn't **just** steal my wallet?”

“That's what I heard,” he grins. “Wonder what else it's got in its filthy pocketses?”

So flustered that it's almost cute, Mammon runs his fingers through his hair and does something I've never seen him do before: he thinks before he speaks. “Ok… Ok, you got this, just… everything I say to Mishka has to be… AHA!” He whirls around, grabs Levi by the shoulders and looks right into his eyes. “I… didn't… steal…her… wallet,” he says, slowly, as if he's listening to each word as it leaves his mouth, “I… just… found… it! Just sittin’ there! Laying’ right out in the open, where anybody could take it! I was just keepin' it safe!”

Oh, well done. He should be the Avatar of Loopholes.

“Here,” he continues, still making it very clear that he's only talking to Levi, “take it! It's a good thing I was here, or someone might've stolen it!” He tosses my wallet over his shoulder.

…

Did I just see what I think I just saw??

Ok, I think I need a slow-motion replay. I could've sworn that what I really just watched was: he pulled my wallet out of his back pocket, then (with one hand) (and without looking) (and without interrupting the conversation) flipped it open, slipped a 20 up his sleeve, flipped it closed and tossed it over his shoulder, all in one smooth motion.

Damn. He's good. I'd almost be tempted to let him keep it, except that I'm in college - which means I’m perpetually twenty bucks away from starving to death. 

“Mammon, what the hell?! I saw that!”

“Saw what??” He turns back to me, which means it's truth or bust. “I didn't do anything!”

…huh? How did he lie right to my face? Unless...

Hmm. I bet that's exactly it. The poor bastard’s so hardwired to steal that even his muscle memory knows what's up. When I hop into a stick shift car, I don't think once about shifting; my hands know exactly what they're supposed to do, leaving my brain free to daydream about which demon would look the hottest in handcuffs. (It's Lucifer, by the way.) He's guilty…but he doesn't even know it.

…can I punish that?

“Mammon,” I sigh, “you've got a $20 up your sleeve. It's mine, and I'd like it back.”

“Huh? Oh! Look at that! Guess I do! Hahaha! How'd that get there?”

Levi whips out his DDD and gets ready to start filming. “Ooooh, that's another Rule! Right, Mishka?! Ohohoh, this will be great!”

“No, Levi,” I say, as I take back the grand total of my personal wealth, “no new Rule for that one.”

“But he-"

“I know he did. But no.” Mammon breathes a sigh of relief; Levi looks so disappointed that you'd think I’d just wiped my ass with his favorite manga. “Aww, don't worry. There's still the question of what else he stole. Isn't there, Mammon? You said you didn't **just** steal my wallet… so what else did you take?”

“It was just change! …EEP! I mean nothin’! Nothin’ at all - except change! BAH! NO! That's not what I meant!!! I didn't take nothin’ else!” He claps both hands over his mouth… then splits his fingers apart and mumbles, “except change! YIPE! Here! Damn it! Take it back! Forty-seven cents ain't worth this!”

I duck to avoid getting knocked unconscious by a handful of flying coins.

Levi curls his tail into my shirt so he can tug on my sleeve without touching me. “Ok, that **has** to be a new Rule, right?? A whole bunch of Rules! One for every penny! You should make him vomit every time he steals something! Or meow whenever he tries to talk! That would be soooooo hilarious!”

I sigh. “Good suggestions, but…” Truth be told, I'm out of ideas. I kinda figured I'd have more time to plan this out; leave it to Mammon to fast-track his own punishment. I need at least one restful night to dream up another half- dozen lessons - which means that first, I need to get the hell to bed.

I do have one last trick left up my sleeve, though. 

“Come here, Mammon.” He’s at my side before I've finished asking; our pact didn't even have time to force him. (It's telling how eager he is to obey me when he can pretend he doesn't have a choice, hmmm?) “Good boy,” I chuckle. “Now, Levi's ideas were good… but yours was even better.”

“Mine??”

“Mhmm. Lift your chin up.” As soon as he does, I clip a heavy brass sleigh bell to his collar. “You will not touch this,” I whisper, right into his ear. “And you’ll stop anyone who tries - except me, of course.”

“Oh, man..” he scowls, “…this is too damn good to be true. I can't even- WAIT! NO! THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT!!!”

“Sure it is,” I purr, still right into his ear. “But don't worry… your secret’s safe with me. It's the least I can do…” I flick the bell to start it jingling, and it's even louder than it looks, “…for such a promising slave.”

“Stop sayin' that word,” he hisses back. “If you call me your slave **one** more time, I'm gonna ne-"

A look of terror flashes across his face, and he clamps both hands over his mouth. This time, he manages to keep his truth to himself, though it looks like the effort nearly chokes him to death. 

Nice save, boy.

But gee… I wonder what the rest of that sentence was going to be?


	5. A muzzle would fix that problem, too.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: This chapter has been rewritten, because the first draft sucked. It's better now. Please enjoy.

Knock knock knock.

Polite knocking? Now there's something you don't hear everyday in the Devildom. Screaming, sure. That desperate scratching behind the walls that you can only hear in the twilight seconds before you fall asleep? White noise. But polite knocking? That's just weird. There are only two demons who respect me enough to knock on my door before they barge right in, and Lucifer's in meetings today, which means it could only be:

“Come in, Belphie.”

He slips in so quietly that I never ever hear the door open. “Mishka.”

“What's up? Everything ok?”

“What did you do to Mammon?”

Right to the point. No smalltalk, no bullshit. I guess that's the thing about sleeping sixteen hours a day – it leaves very little time for beating around the bush.

It took me a while to really figure Belphie out, and I think that's because he’s so simple that he's complicated. He's the most curious sort of… straight-forward enigma; a riddle that's so difficult because it's answer is so obvious.

Talking with him always leaves me feeling relieved, even when I never knew I was bothered in the first place. I imagine it's the sort of peculiar intimacy that serial killers might feel for the detectives who hunt them. No facades, no white lies, no fake smiles, no expectations – just the sort of brutal honesty that unites enemies and destroys marriages.

He wants the truth. That's it; that's all. Crazy, right? He couldn't care less about the labyrinthine, bullshit justifications that the rest of us build around our facts to make them more presentable.

People are exhausting.

Belphegor is refreshing.

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Except that with Belphie, he actually means it.

So… if I'm hoping to be completely honest, here… What did I do to Mammon, exactly?

“I put a collar on him.” Can't get much more, ‘nothing but the truth’ than that, right?

“A collar he can't take off.”

“Well… I'm not exactly sure about that,” I admit. “I **told** him he couldn't take it off, sure, but I know as much about magic as I know about knitting socks. You're sure he can't take it off?”

“If he could, he wouldn't be in my room right now, begging Beel to help him.”

Ok, now I'm smiling. I was wondering why I hadn't seen him all day. “Why Beel?”

“Because he's not trying to **take** it off, he's trying to **tear** it off, and Beel can bench-press a water buffalo. If anyone can do it, it's him.”

Fair enough. “And have they figured it out?”

“No. Mammon keeps insisting that he try, but won't actually let him. It's annoying. What did you do to him?”

Belphie looks much more bothered by this than I would've expected, and I can only imagine one reason why that might be. I shut my textbook, scooch over to one side of the bed, and beckon him to join me. “It's not Mammon you're worried about, is it?”

He nudges my books out of his way like a jealous housecat and snuggles into my bed with his head on my lap. “No. Whatever you've done to Mammon, he deserves it. I'm fine with that. But when I made my pact with you, it was only because I trusted you not to let the power go to your head. If that's changed… if **you've** changed… if you've suddenly decided to start enslaving the demons you've made pacts with, then I can't stand for that. I don’t want to have to kill you, Mishka.”

Ahhhhhh, I get it now. “You're worried that I'm going to do this to you, too.”

“Yes.” He yawns. “And I won't let you.”

Only Bephie could cuddle me and threaten me at the same time. I used to think these were mixed messages, but I get it now. Everything with Belphie is black and white; he's got no time for grey. He's knows no degrees of affection; he either loves you completely, or not at all. If he trusts you, he'll do so implicitly until something changes his mind, and even though he's clearly worried… I haven't yet done anything to change his mind.

That could change in a heartbeat, though. If he doesn't like my answer, he'll slit my throat and go right back to sleep on my gaping, dumbfounded corpse.

“I know you won't, Belphie. You don't have anything to worry about, though. This isn't about power.”

“Then what is it about?”

Huh. Good question. I was hoping to keep all of this to myself, but I can't hide anything from Belphie. Truth be told, I'm more frightened of losing his trust than I am of getting my ass kicked by Lucifer. I could get over torture… but I could never face myself in the mirror again if I betrayed Belphegor.

So, with that being said… I take one last, deep breath… and confess everything. The rules of my little game. The inspiration behind it. The reason it began. The how and the what and the why. The outcome I'm secretly hoping for. I tell him the absolute, un-edited truth about everything.

“…and since he can't admit it on his own, I'm hoping that… Huh? Belphie? Hey – Belphie??”

…He's asleep. Well, that's my answer, then. If it was anyone else, I'd be irked that they'd fallen asleep in the middle of my heartfelt confession. Downright offended, actually. But Belphie isn't ‘anyone else’. The Avatar of Sloth he may be, but I know him well enough by now to know that he doesn't just fall asleep whenever the urge strikes him. Seventh or not, he's stronger than his vice. Belphegor only succumbs to his perpetual exhaustion if he feels safe enough to do so, which means that even if he didn't hear my whole confession… he heard enough.

In his black and white world, he's already made up his mind.

“Hey. Wake up, little one.”

“Hmmmm?” He yawns, and peels his eyes open. “Mishka. I wasn’t sleeping; I was listening. Are you… I'm not your little one.”

“Sure you are,” I smile, as I kiss the top of his head. “And you always will be.”

He blushes, and moves the conversation right along in the hopes that I won't notice. “Mammon's still in my room. If you're ordering him around now, can you make him leave so I can sleep in peace?”

“I can try. Come, little one. Let's go.”

He grumbles a little at being forced to move, but collects his pillow and follows me to his room.

“Stop. Listen.” Just outside his door, he makes poignant eye-contact. “Hear it? How am I supposed to hear myself dream with all that racket?”

I hold my breath (human ears have nothing on demons') and listen.

“Just get it off, would ya?! Hurry up already!"

“Your hands are in the way.”

"YOUR hands are in the way! C'mon, Beel! Just grab it when I ain't lookin'!"

A few seconds of tense silence, then

**CRASHJINGLEJINGLEJINGLECRASH**

“... You were still looking.”

“WAS NOT! You're just… you’re not doin’ it right! C'mere and try again!”

"...Ok."

Belphie looks at me. “See? And now they start all over again. This is the ninth time, Mishka. Nine. Even I can't sleep through that.”

“I see what you mean. Should I knock?”

“No. It's my room, too.” And with that, he shoves his way inside.

“Belphie!”

“Mishka!” There's always a split-second, before his ego kicks into overdrive, that Mammon’s eyes light up like Christmas when he sees me. It's my favourite split-second of every day. “I was hoping you'd catch me here!”

Beel frowns. “Huh? What did you say? But I thought you were hiding from-”

“NO NO NO! That's not what I meant!!”

That's **exactly** what he meant, but I'm the only one who knows it. I’ll play along, though. “Hi Beel. Mammon. Whatcha doing?”

“Nothin’! Nothin at all!” …Riiight. I guess that's **technically** true, since they both stopped whatever they were doing when the door opened, but the fact that Mammon's hiding his collar with both hands and enough guilt in his eyes to drown a dragon is undermining the sentiment a little. “You should…uhh… you should be in bed! Right! You should be sleepin'! Humans need to sleep, don't they?”

“We do, but not all the time.” I smirk at him. “Trying to get your collar off, huh?”

He slams a hand over his mouth and shakes his head. (Smart. Can't blurt out the truth if you don't say anything at all, right?) “MM-MM!”

“Yes he is,” Beel says, utterly oblivious to the death-glare his honestly evokes. “He keeps asking me to get it off him, but he won't let me try.”

Mammon goes from red and flustered to white as a sheet in three seconds flat, then poignantly turns his back on me to address Beel directly. “That ain't true! I was just askin' if you could… uh… open it up a little; ya know, make it more… more comfortable! Yeah, that's it!”

“That's not what you-"

“SHADDUP! Ah, hehehe!” Now he's gone from red to white to looking like he's about to bolt screaming off a cliff. “You dunno what you're talkin’ about, Beel. You must be hungry. Hey, would ya look at that?! I've got a pocket cookie!”

….eww. It's not even in a wrapper. 

Beel lights right up. “Can I have it?”

Professionally ignoring every last ounce of nonsense happening in the background, Belphie grabs me by the hand and leads me to his bed. A ghost of a smile crosses his features as he gets close; you'd think he just laid eyes on his oldest, dearest friend. “Mishka,” he mumbles, as he lays me down and painstakingly rearranges my arms and legs like he's weaving a nest out of body parts, “make him go away. I'm tired.”

And with that, he snuggles up beside me, yawns, and closes his eyes. Sleeping with Belphie (literal sleeping, of course) is a surreal experience, and one that I often find myself craving like the sweetest drug in the middle of cold, human-world nights. I don't even bother trying to get comfortable anymore; I leave it to the expert, and he hasn't once let me down. He arranges us both, just like he did tonight, and the result is always the same: we fit together perfectly. I've never gotten too hot, never tossed or turned, never had an arm go numb or my fingers start to tingle. It's the euphoric comfort of sleeping in on Saturday morning, when your sheets are fresh, your pillow is cool and real life hasn't quite woken itself up yet.

When the time finally comes for me to move on, when my hair is gray, my trusty heart is running down and I'm too tired to worry anymore, I would give up eternity if it meant I could fall asleep, one last time and forever, in Belphegor's arms.

His brothers think he's lazy. I think he's the only demon who remembers what heaven feels like.

It's a shame that I can't sneak in a power nap right now, but I did come here for a reason. No rest for the wicked, right? Besides, there's a scene playing out across the room that I wouldn't miss for all the Saturday mornings in the world.

Beelzebub is being sneaky. That's a tall order, for a seven foot demon who’s built like a brick shithouse, but he's pulling it off. Mammon’s attention is fixed firmly on me and Belphie (and it looks like steam’s about to start shooting out of his ears), which means he doesn't notice his enormous little brother creeping up behind him.

This should be interesting.

Beel grabs Mammon from behind. “GOTCHA!”

“YIPE!” There's that weird dog-yelp again. What the hell is that? “BEEL, GET OFF ME! LET ME GO!”

Oh… oh, my.

Now this, I like.

I could watch Mammon struggle against his brother’s rock-hard body all goddamn night. Beel's biceps are straining the seams of his sleeves; Mammon's cursing and kicking and pinned so tightly that he can't move anything above his waist; they're both starting to sweat through their shirts, and… oh… uh…

...wait, what was I talking about?

“Mishka,” Belphie mumbles, “you're drooling on me.”

Ah, shit. I certainly am.

He opens his eyes just long enough to see what's so interesting, then snuggles back down and drapes an arm over my chest. “Which one are you watching?”

“Both.”

“But you're in love with Mammon.”

I somehow manage to choke on a lungful of perfectly good air as my brain locks up like a lagging laptop that's been clicked one too many times. Love?! That's a pretty strong, uh… Well, I mean… It's not like that, exactly, it's more like…

...

…..

Fuck it.

“…Yeah. I… guess I am.”

Huh. I think that's the first time I've admitted that out loud.

“Gross.” (OH gee, thanks.) “But you could do worse, I guess. He likes you too.” The end of his thought is ten percent words, ninety percent yawn. “Don't hurt him.”

“I won't. …Can I keep screwing with him, though?”

“No. It's cruel.”

…wait, what?!

“…unless you promise to tell me all the details in the morning.”

Belphie's jokes are tiny desert flowers; subtle and unassuming, but more precious than a thousand roses for their rarity. I'm not even convinced he **is** joking until cracks one eye open just long enough to wink at me. 

“You fuckin' rascal. It's a deal,” I chuckle. “Sweet dreams, little one.” I brush a bit of hair out of his eyes and kiss his forehead, and half-asleep smile it earns is sweeter than all the pocket cookies in the world. “Love you.”

“Goodnight, Mishka. I love you too.”

“- YER GIANT MEAT-HOOKS OFF ME, YOU GAPING PIE PIT! PUT ME DOWN!”

…phew. That was coming dangerously close to being a tender moment; it's a good thing Mammon was here to save the day.

I look back just in time to watch Beel dig one massive hand up underneath Mammon's collar. 

“No. Stop squirming so I can -YYYOW!!”

Well, **that** was loud.

Now Beel's holding one of his hands in the other, and looks absolutely crestfallen. It's the exact opposite of his cookie face. “He BIT me.”

Mammon hits the floor running, bolts across the room (jingle jingle jingle lol) and presses his back against the wall. “Damn it, Beel! I told ya to let me go! You're…you're ok, right?”

“…you bit me.”

“It ain't my fault! I'm… I'm sorry, ok!”

Did Mammon just… apologize? To a living, breathing person?

“Beel, I'm beggin' you, just… stay back, ok?” He fires me an accusatory glare, like this is all **my** fault. “I just don't… oh, geez… I don't wanna hurt you, ok?”

It's a justified warning. Mammon's commands are clear: if push comes to shove, he'll shift into his demon form and murder anyone who tries to free him. Our pact is more powerful than blood. The only one who'd stand a chance against him is Lucifer – but that wouldn't even be a fight. That would be a bloodbath. Beel might not know that his life is actually in danger, but I do.

And it seems like, at last, Mammon does, too.

“Mammon,” I whisper, since Belphie has finally managed to tune out the screaming, crashing, jingling chaos long enough to fall asleep, “come here. It sounds like we need to talk.”

“You're damn right we do!” As furious as he is, though, he's taking pains to be as quiet as I am. Guess I'm not the only one who has a soft spot for Belphegor. “This ain't funny anymore, Mishka.” He glances around the room, presumably to make sure no one else can hear him, then leans in close. “I might not be an angel anymore, but… look, don't tell anyone, but deep down, I ain't really a scumbag, neither. I get that you're messin' with me, but I don't wanna hurt nobody.”

…Wow. That's actually… a really good argument. Somebody mark the date or something. “…Ok, Mammon. You win. I won't let you hurt anyone.” It's exactly what he wanted to hear, but I wouldn't describe his expression as relieved… or even happy. If anything, I'd describe it as... disappointed?

...Does he think I'm about to let him go?

“You're right,” I concede. “If you're going to be my slave, I need to keep you under control. So… from now on, so long as you're wearing my collar…”

“Damn it, Mishka!! This ain't what I-"

“…you will stay by my side.”

He just stares. His mouth is hanging open, frozen mid-thought like he wants to finish his sentence but doesn't remember how it began. I think I broke his brain. 

“…wait… what? Stay at your… You mean, like… always?”

“Any good slave’s place is at his Mistress' side, isn't it? What good are you otherwise? That should've been your first Rule,” I sigh, “but clearly I dropped the ball. That's my fault, not yours. The minute I decided to make you mine, I should've been taking care of you – not only making sure you learn your place, but making sure you don't hurt anyone, either. I wouldn't let my dog shit in my neighbor's yard, would I?”

I might, actually, if my neighbour was a dick. That doesn't seem to matter, though. I don't think Mammon even heard the metaphor, let alone appreciated it.

“So…” He whispers the next part right into my ear, like he's afraid that if he says it out loud, it won't come true. “…you're sayin' I've gotta let you hang around with me, like… all the time?”

“All the time.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

“But… If I can't… and he's not gonna just let me…” Uh oh, he's thinking. He'd better stretch first, or he's gonna hurt himself. “When you go back to the human world, how am I supposed to…?”

“Oh, come on. You're not an idiot. Whenever I'm in the Devildom,” I clarify, for the dunce in the back of the class, “You'll stay beside me, close enough that I can keep you under heel. Let's say… ten feet? That sound good? If you want to leave my side, or have your own errands to run, you'll ask my permission, first. If I'm in the human world, though, you're free to-"

“-do whatever I want!”

I scowl at him, but he doesn't notice. Being interrupted is one of my worst pet peeves – and if he does it again, he's gonna learn that the hard way.

“Ok… ok, that don't sound too bad, I guess. I mean, you're barely down here at all anymore, really; just this weekend, and last Friday, and the week before last Friday, and the long weekend before the week before last Friday…”

Huh. For someone without a pointy little tail, I spend a hell of a lot of time in the realm of the Demon King. No wonder my grades back home are slipping. 

“So that's just... aw, man! I had to watch ya for a whole year, and now I've gotta do it all over again?! I got deals to make, ya hear?! Nobody's gonna take me seriously if I got a human taggin' along!”

Uh huh. He's taking even longer than usual to reach the inevitable caboose of this train of thought. Maybe he needs a tiny kick to get all the way there.

I lay my cheek against Belphie's and snuggle further into his arms. Even fast asleep, he mumbles something I can't quite make out, pulls me right up against him, and kisses my cheek.

Yup, that did it. Nothing turns Mammon's blue eyes red faster than seeing somebody else let themselves love me as easily as he wishes he could.

“Hey hey HEY! I never said you couldn't come along, ok! I **guess** I could let you hang out with me, so long as you stay outta my way and don't– BEEL, NO!”

Beel, yes.

I've been watching Beelzebub painstakingly tip-toe across the room like a gargantuan cartoon character for almost two whole minutes. When that boy has a job to do, bless his cursed heart, he **does** it. I could've warned Mammon, but… but, well, this is **so** much more fun.

Even without my help, though, Mammon ducks in time to avoid getting yanked into another crushing bear hug. “Stop! I don't wanna bite you again!”

“Then don't.”

“I can't help myself! Don't you see what's goin' on here? This damn collar’s controllin’ me; makin' me do stuff I kinda really wanna d- I mean DON'T wanna do!” he manages to clarify, but only by turning his back on me. He’d better learn to do that **before** he starts talking, because if he keeps backpedaling that hard, he's gonna blow out his transmission. “If you keep tryin’ to help me, it's gonna make me bite you again!”

Beel frowns. “Then **you** take it off.”

“I can't!”

“Why not? I saw it. It's just a buckle.”

“I know!”

“It's not locked.”

“I know it ain't locked! I'm not stupid!”

“So just-"

“I CAN'T!!” Mammon runs his fingers through his hair and holds up one hand to stay his brother’s stubborn advance. “Listen. I've been tryin' to get it off, ok? It won't let me. Every time I try, my fingers go all numb and tingly, so I can't feel what I'm doin' . The longer I try, the worse it gets. It’s real annoying!”

“Then let me-"

“NO!!”

Oh, for crying out loud. Between Beel's stubborn determination to help at all costs and Mammon's stubborn refusal to admit that he doesn't actually **need** any help, this could go on all bloody day.

“I… I changed my mind, ok? It's just a stupid collar, it ain't… it ain't hurtin' me or nothin'. I, uhh… I appreciate you tryin', but it's ok. I'll figure somethin’ out. The Great Mammon's got this, ya hear! All I gotta do is… huh? Beel? You don't gotta be sad; it ain't your fault you sucked at helping.”

Gee, how sweet.

I gently slide Belphie's arm off my chest so I can sit up. Beel **does** look sad, all of a sudden. Does he think he failed his brother? Someone begged him for help, and he couldn't save them? Has he felt all this before, the night his wings turned black and three became two?

This could be a dangerous rabbit hole for a sweet demon who’s heart is bigger even than his stomach.

“Beel?” I ease myself out of bed and lay a hand on his shoulder. “Are you ok? What's wrong?”

“…I'm hungry.”

…oh, geez. Yup, of course. I heard hooves and thought zebras, instead of horses. My fault. I'm an idiot. I pat him on the back. “One cookie wasn't enough, eh?

“No.”

Poor boy.

Of all the brothers, Beel's the only one I've ever felt sorry for. They all downplay his gluttony as just another temptation, one no different than Lust or Greed or Envy… but that's not the whole story. I used to think the same thing, until one evening when, in passing, he made the off-handed comment that being hungry all the time didn't hurt quite so much, when I was around.

Then I understood.

It has nothing to do with food. The seven brothers all live their vices… but Beel's the only one who suffers his. To feel like you're starving, all the time? To live every single day with that heavy, aching pit in your stomach, and no way to ever satiate your hunger?

Sometimes, I can't but wonder… is this perpetual hunger a punishment? A taste of the guilt that he’ll never be able to live down, no matter how hard he tries?

Maybe I'm just new to this, but it all seems terribly cruel to me.

I put my arm around his shoulders. “Well, I'm pretty hungry myself… Would you like to go to dinner with me? We can go right now, if you want.”

He smiles at me, and it's soft and sweet and beautiful. “I'd like that.”

Mammon snorts, crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at the floor. “Well, I ain't goin'!” he announces, despite the fact that nobody asked him. “I got stuff I gotta take care of here – important stuff! The kinda stuff I can't do with a human nippin' at my heels, get it?”

Important stuff, huh? The last time he said that, he got us all banned from our DDDs for a fucking month.

Beel just shrugs. “Ok. Don't wake Belphie up.” With that all settled (insofar as Beel is concerned, at least) he takes my hand and walks me out. We only get two doors down the hall, however, before the yelling starts behind us.

“Hey! What the…?! NGNNGH!!!”

I gave him… what? Ten feet? Yup. Right on time, then.

“Hold up a second, Beel. Mammon's coming, too.”

“But he said-"

“I know what he said. Just give him a minute.”

A minute was generous. Six seconds was all we really needed.

In a flurry of jingling curses, Mammon comes crashing out the door. He's got a deathgrip on his collar, and is straining backwards like he's losing a game of invisible tug'o'war. “Dammit! Mishka, you're killin' me here!! I told you I don't wanna come! I ain't got no money; what am I supposed to do at a fancy restaurant, huh? Just sit there drinkin' tap water??”

"Uh, if by ‘sit there' you mean ‘in a chair’, then no. Feel free to **stand** there drinking tap water, though," I smirk. 

Even with both heels dug deep and wrinkling up the carpet, one of the most powerful demons in the devildom is no match for my silly little rules. He curses and rants and raves and whines (SO much whining) until he's exactly ten feet away from me, where his collar abruptly stops pulling without so much as a polite head's up.

My poor, stupid demon was NOT ready for it, and crashes face-first into the floor. 

“…ow.”

Beel raises an eyebrow at me.

I can't stop smirking. “Told you he was coming.”


	6. One step forward...

Mammon has a tree. It's a pretty nice tree, actually. Big. Old. It would look like a beautiful oil painting, green and violet and yellow, its boughs so heavy with tiny flowers that they're brushing the wreath of grass below... except that there's an idiot wrapped around its trunk, and not even the priciest oils, in the most talented hands, could do justice to the tantrum this idiot is throwing.

“NUH UH I AIN'T GOIN' OUT IN PUBLIC AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!!!”

Ok: 1) He's already in public, and 2) …Ugh. Yes. Yes I can, you friggen moron.

I guess a little context would be nice, eh? Well, let's see. Beel and I are waiting patiently, like grown-ups, outside of Ristorante Six for our table to open up, and Mammon’s halfway up a tree on the other side of the street, clinging on for all he's worth and loudly cursing me, my ancestors, and the entire human race. (I knew I should've called Satan. We would've been eating bacon-wrapped mephit wings at the chef's table an hour ago, instead of standing in the street watching **this** horseshit.)

So here we are. Beel has a bowl of garlic bread (wait where the hell did that come from and why isn't he sharing with nevermind it's gone) Mammon has a tree, and I have a problem. His newest rule is forcing him to, essentially, stay at heel, which worked out fantastically for, what? Twenty minutes? Twenty-five? However long it takes to walk downtown, at any rate. He spent five minutes sulking, five whining, and the rest of the way clawing at anything he could reach in a vain attempt to keep from getting dragged along by his neck. (Which was equal parts hilarious and unbelievably hot.) None of it worked, obviously; there's nothing in his arsenal that could even come close to standing its ground against the magic of our pact.

What CAN stand its ground against our pact, however, is a thirty-five foot darkpetal willow tree.

I can move Mammon.

I **cannot** move that giant-ass tree.

And when Mammon holds on, he holds the **fuck** on.

It's now been thirty whole seconds since a nameless server in a black-on-black uniform stepped outside to tell me that our table's ready. Beel's eyes followed him all the way back inside, and now they're flicking back and forth between his idiot brother and the restaurant doors, looking more and more anxious by the second. By the time he looks down at me, he's wringing his hands so hard it makes my knuckles hurt just watching it. “Mishka, can we just go without him? Every table that sits down before we do is one less table's worth of food for us.”

For ‘us’, he says. Like I, too, am expecting to consume thirty-seven racks of ribs in one sitting. For a seven-foot demon, Beel can be cuter than a wide-eyed puppy sometimes.

“We can't, actually.”

‘We’ can't, I say. What I really mean is that I, very literally, cannot leave him. So long as Mammon keeps hanging on, **I'm** the idiot on the ten foot leash.

Don't you dare say it serves me right.

“Sorry, Beel. Mammon has to come with us.”

“Because he's your slave?”

The question catches me so off-guard that my first answer in to choke on my own saliva. Once I'm certain I'm not about to suffocate on my own stupidity in the middle of the street, I try my answer again. “Well, I was going to say: “because I made the reservation for three”, but… yeah, your reason is better.” I glance up. “It doesn't bother you?”

“Nope. You'll take good care of him.” He's still talking to me, but is staring forlornly at the young couple who just got seated ahead of us. “Mishka, can we eat now?”

“We can eat as soon as I figure out how to get an idiot out of a tree,” I mutter, “without a shotgun, that is.”

Beel was already half-way across the street by ‘idiot out of a tree’. “Mammon, get down. Our table’s ready.”

“What part of I AIN'T COMIN' didn't ya get?!” He scooches another six inches up the trunk and starts pelting his brother with fistfuls of willow catkins. “Go away! SHOO!”

There’s so much pollen billowing around Beel's face that it looks like someone just smoked him in the chest with a tear-gas grenade, but he hasn't even blinked. (I, on the other hand, can feel my sinuses packing up in real time). He ducks a flying branch, then stretches up on his tiptoes, reaches up… and suddenly snatches his hand away. “Mishka?” he frowns over his shoulder, “he won't bite me again, will he?”

“I told ya that wasn't my fault! I was only-"

“He won't bite,” I assure him.

“I won't? You don't think so, do ya? Oh yeah?! Since when are you decidin’ what I won't-"

“Even if I touch his collar?”

“Nuh uh, you ain't touchin' my nothin’, Beel! Keep your-"

“As long as you're not trying to take it off, you’ll be perfectly safe.”

“HEY QUIT IGNORIN' ME YOU TW- YIPE!!!”

With the back of Mammon's collar firmly in hand, Beel peels his brother out of his leafy sanctuary and drags him, kicking and (literally) screaming, across the street. “Stop that. Your Mistress wants you, and I want to eat.”

Well, that was easy. Wish I'd thought of that fifteen minutes ago.

Beel lifts his brother off the ground, kicks both feet out from under him, then slams him down on his knees at my feet. “I got him,” he beams, looking as proud as any struggling kid who’d just earned his first gold star on the blackboard.

“You sure did,” I grin. “That was pretty impressive, actually.”

“Was not,” Mammon mutters, as he pushes himself out of the dirt. He’s not even halfway up, though, before Beel plants one massive hand on his shoulder and drives him right back down again.

“Yowwie!! Beel, what do ya think you’re doin', huh?” He tries twice more, once with a fancy dodge’n'weave that gets him nowhere and once with a ‘hey look over there is that cake?!’ that comes stupidly close to working, but by the time the dust settles, my poor demon’s still kneeling at my feet, winded and sweating and glaring ice shards up at his towering brother. “Who… put you… in charge,” he wheezes. “I don't… got no… pact with…. you. What's… the big idea… huh?”

“Our table’s ready,” is Beel's spectacular explanation. “You need to be good.”

“I don't need to be nothin'! Just cause you're bigger than me don't mean you can just – ok ok OK!” Mammon throws his hands up in surrender and kneels back down on his own, this time, just quickly enough to keep Beel from doing it for him. “Look, I'm stayin' down, ok? Geez!”

Beel smiles warmly and pats his brother on the head. “Good slave.”

I don't know what's more adorable: that the compliment is utterly sincere, or that it leaves Mammon bristling like a grumpy little hedgehog.

“Wha?! DON'T CALL ME THAT!”

I don't think Beel even heard him. He's staring right at me with so much hope in his eyes that you'd think I'd come to rescue him from a deserted island. “Can we eat now?”

“Yes.” His smile is contagious, and I suddenly feel as relieved as he looks. “Go get our table and order as much as you want. I'm buying.”

Wasting no more time with inedible words, Beel plants a heavy kiss into the top of my head and disappears so fast that I don't even see him leave.

I crouch down on my toes; Mammon pretends he can't see me so convincingly that, for a split-second, I wonder if I've **finally** managed to turn myself invisible.

“Mammon.”

He flat-out ignores me.

Geez. You'd think that a demon who’s seen more birthdays than the gregorian calendar would be more mature than a toddler, but… here we are. I snap my fingers in front of his face. “MAMMON.”

“Huh? Did somebody say somethin’? Cause I can totally hear everything you're say – DAMMIT! I meant I CAN'T hear anythin’ you're… ugh. I can't even do sarcasm, now?” He scowls at the ground. “This whole ‘tellin' the truth’ deal’s the **worst**."

“The worst, eh? Well, if you think telling the truth is a pain in the ass, then you're gonna hate this. Mammon… Avatar of Greed, so long as you're wearing my collar, you'll-mmmMMMPH!”

Good lord, he moves fast when he wants to. “No no no no NO NO NONONO,” he cries, with one hand on the back of my neck and the other clamped firmly over my mouth. “No more rules! Look, see? I'm stayin' on my knees, just like you wanted! All on my own!”

I gently peel his hand away from my face. “To be fair,” I smirk, “I never commanded you to kneel.”

“Huh? You didn't? But…” he furrows his brow, thinks hard (careful you don't burn your brain with all that thinking, dear), then shakes his head. “I coulda sworn that you…”

“Nope. That was all Beel,” I chuckle. “But that doesn't mean I don’t – ah ah ah, now, don't get up.” I lean in close enough to breathe the rest into his ear. “All the modeling gigs in the world couldn't make you look as sexy as you are when you're kneeling at my feet, Mammon. Whenever I'm up in the human world, all alone in my cold, empty bed, it's thinking of you that keeps me warm… and in every fantasy, you look just… like… this.”

Aww. He's blushing.

Staying on his knees, too.

Funny, that.

“Pfft, that ain't… that ain't true,” he mumbles. “You're just sayin' that so… so I won't stand up.”

He's suddenly having a whole lot of trouble looking me in the eye, so I tip his chin up until he has no choice. “Am I?”

For someone who spends every second of every day wanting some prize or another, the timid hope in his eyes is betraying that he's never wanted **any** prize so much as he wants to believe I'm telling the truth about this.

“Mmm. There's a good boy. Now… be good, and listen. Mammon… Avatar of Greed… so long as you're wearing my collar…”

He swallows nervously… but keeps his eyes on mine and doesn't interrupt.

I lean back and run my hands over his shoulders and all the way down his arms, until I'm cradling his wrists. As gently as I can, I urge his hands together behind his back. “… you’ll keep your pesky hands right here, all the time, unless they're doing something constructive.”

“Wha…?!” He blinks, and just like that, remembers who he is. “No way! You can't just… Nngh! I won't do it!” He digs all ten fingers into the dirt. After a second or two of desperate straining, of watching with frustration as the pull of our pact slowly drags his hands backwards through the grass, he groans miserably and sinks his nails into his own legs, hard enough that his eyes start to water. “You don't own me!”

“Oh, but I do,” I purr, so close now that I'm practically in his lap, “I absolutely, completely do. You can't fight me, Mammon. You made a pact with me, and now you're going to learn to live with it.” I gently brush his hair out of his eyes and lay a hand on his cheek. “Don't fight it, my beautiful slave; you can't win. Just relax. You're mine, now. Relax and accept it; you’ll feel so much better once you do.” I’ve got him again. His eyes are damp and frightened, but it's a fear too powerful to owe itself to a silly new rule.

Whatever he's **really** fighting right now, it isn't me.

I wipe away the lonely tear that's trickling down his cheek. “Give yourself to me, Mammon. It won't be so bad, once you get used to it. I'll take such good care of you, if you'll let me.”

His arms are shaking. The effort of holding his ground is stealing his breaths faster than he can get them back; how he finds enough to whisper even a single word is beyond me. His eyes well up even before he asks it, like he's more afraid of hearing the answer than of asking the question.

“…promise?”

…

Ah, shit. Now I'm gonna start crying, too.

“…Do I promise? To take care of you, you mean?”

“...Yeah.”

“Oh, Mammon…” I cradle his chin in my palms and kiss his forehead. “Of course I do. You won't just be mine; you'll be the most precious thing I own; the only thing that really matters to me. You serve me; I take care of you. That's how it works. You didn't think being a slave was a one-way street, did you? Just commands and collars and cute little jingle bells?”

“… kinda,” he whispers, between teeth clenched so hard that it's straining the tendons in his neck.

“Well now you know better, hmm?” I run my hands gently down his arms, until I've got both of his hands in mine, and he shivers so hard that I can feel it in every finger. “There you go,” I whisper, as I feel his trembling body reluctantly start to relax. “See? I told you there nothing to be afraid of.”

With a shaking sigh, he drops his eyes and finally lets himself go.

It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and watching it brings a fresh wash of tears to my eyes. They're not sad tears, or even happy ones; they're the sort of tears that I'd cry if I ever looked upon the face of God, and knew that I was wholly undeserving of such a sacred sight.

His glasses have slid a little cock-eyed, but he can't fix them. There's dirt and little fluffs of willow seed all over his designer jeans. He’s staring at the ground between his knees, through hair just long enough to get in the way, just… quietly breathing.

He looks broken.

I wonder if this will change anything?

I stand up and pat him on the shoulder. “See? That wasn't so bad, was it? Now come. Beel's been unattended in a busy restaurant for ten minutes now; if we don't get in there soon, there won't be any food left for either of us.”

…he's ignoring me again.

This time, though, I think it's only because he's lost so far down in himself that he honestly didn't hear me at all.

“Hey. Mammon.” I flick his bell, and the delicate jingle is just enough to snap him out of it.

“Huh? Mishka? What did you… yeah, yeah, I'm comin',” he mutters. With a quiet grunt, he rolls up onto his toes and heaves himself up, all in one smooth motion.

(Ok, for some reason, I found that **unbelievably** hot.)

“Don't you go tellin’ nobody about this,” he adds, already sounding much more like the obstinate bastard I fell in love with, “’cause there ain't nothin' to tell, ya hear? It never happened.”

I can't help but chuckle. If that's the way he wants to deal with this this, I'm happy to play along. “What never happened?”

“Huh? All that stuff about takin' care of me and junk!”

…good god, he's stupid.

“Don't worry, hun. I won't tell a soul.”

“Damn straight! I'm gonna hold you to that. If I find out you've been talkin', I can't promise I won't hurt ya!”

Uh huh. Big words, coming from a demon with his hands tied behind his back.

“But…” He shrugs his shoulders, for the dozenth time since he stood up, then glances over his shoulder, makes certain nobody can hear him, and leans down. “Can you maybe imagine something more comfortable?”

Now it's my turn to be confused. “Pardon?”

“This… new rule,” he grumbles. “It ain't comfortable. I get that humans don't understand how these pacts feel to us demons, but take my word for it – they don't feel nice. You're commandin' me to keep my hands behind my back, so that's what I've gotta do, but… even though there's nothin' actually holdin’ me - that you can see, anyway - there **totally** is. And right now, that thing is cold and hard and waaaaay too tight, ya know? It feels like human-world handcuffs, ‘cause that's what you're imagining it should feel like.”

Is Mammon giving me…practical advice?? I stop walking, but don't dare interrupt. This, I want to hear.

“See, that's how magic works. You're in charge, so it's gonna feel like whatever you want it to feel like. And right now,” he grimaces, and rolls his shoulders one more time in a vain attempt to get comfortable, “you're makin’ it feel like one of Lucifer's lessons. So… come on, can you just… ease up a little?”

“I can try. Just… ok, give me a minute.” So… this all works based on my imagination, does it? The magic I invoke manifests itself in accordance with my will? Ok, then. I close my eyes, and concentrate for all I'm worth.

A few very long, long seconds of nothing… then a soft, relieved sigh.

“…Mmm. Thanks, Mishka.”

“Better?”

“Yeah. I still can't move, but… least it's soft.”

It should be. That’s leather lined with sheep's skin; as expensive as it is inescapable.

“Good. Can we eat, then?” I hate to steal a page out of Beel's playbook, but after all this magic-ing, I'm friggen starving.

“You can,” he grumbles, even as he falls into step beside me. “I still ain't got no money, remember?”

“Oh, relax,” I chuckle. “You can get whatever you want. I'm buying.”

There are those magic words again.

“Seriously?! Hahaha! Hey, that's… nuh uh, wait a minute.” Score one for pattern recognition, at least. “Are you bein' serious with me? ‘Cause the last time you said you were buyin', I ended up in this stupid collar.”

Touché.

“I'm being serious,” I assure him. “I said I was going to take care of you, didn't I?”

“Well, yeah, but… you never told me that meant buyin’ me stuff! You should've said that in the first place!” Now he's practically bouncing along beside me, with a smile so wide you'd think he'd just won the lottery. “What’re you waiting for?! Let's go!”

…I've never loved him more than I do right now. He's trotting along beside me, with his hands fixed behind his back and his jingle bell a'jingling, and looks so purely, beautifully happy that I almost can't stand it.

I hold the door for him, only because he can't do it himself, and scan the hungry crowd. Ah, yes. There's our table. It's the one with nine places set for three people, a veritable Viking feast of steaming food, and a crowd of quietly sobbing waiters hovering nearby.

“Beel,” I smile. “How’s dinner?”

“Grmmpphhh,” he beams, “Emryphinth ss grmmph!”

…I can't stop smiling. What a sweetheart.

“I take it that means good?”

This time, he swallows before he answers. “Great! Oh, Mishha. This is the best thing I've ever eaten!”

 **Everything** is the best thing he's ever eaten, but I don't call him on it.

“I ordered you some blood-baked wyrm ribs, because I know how much you like them, but…”

“…but?”

“…but I ate them.”

“’Course you did,” Mammon mutters. I’ve already taken a seat, but that's just left my poor boy the last man standing, pacing back and forth behind my chair, firing resentful looks at the seven unoccupied seats he can't use.

Beel looks up from his fourteen plates just long enough to frown. “Mammon. All that pacing is making me hungry again. Sit down.”

“Yes,” adds a well-dressed demon that I can only assume is the Maître D, “please take your seat, Sir. Your… ahem… bell… is bothering the other diners.”

“Oh, is it?! Is it really?! Well I got news for you, buddy – it's botherin' me even worse! I’m the one who's gotta wear the stupid thing! How do ya think I feel, huh?!”

“I'm sure it must be a tragedy for you,” deadpans the Maître D, “but if you would just take a seat-“

“Not a chance! I like standin’! ‘Sides, those chairs don't look… don't look comfortable. Like they're fulla splinters! Splinters and… and termites! So unless you want the Great Mammon tellin’ the whole world that your crummy restaurant ain’t all it's cracked up to be, you’ll lay off!”

“Sir, I-"

Mammon whirls on his toes and bares his teeth (holy shit are they **always** that sharp?!) in a demonic snarl that overturns three empty chairs and sets a nearby tablecloth on fire.

…Well, **that** wasn't very nice.

But hey, would you look at that: all of a sudden, every single person in Ristorante Six is minding their own damn business again.

Uhh… except that poor busboy in the corner, who looks like he's just inherited a crippling case of PTSD.

Beelzebub, who didn't even flinch, takes a break between bites to frown at his brother. “Why don't you just ask?”

“Huh? Ask for what??”

“Mishka isn't mean. She's nice. If you ask her permission to sit down, I'm sure she'll let you.”

With that said, he's right back to devouring an entire roasted turkey unto himself. (Wait, that's got too many legs to be a turkey – what the hell IS that thing?) 

Mammon, on the other hand, looks downright flustered. “Ask permission?! From a human?? You're joking, right?!” He only does two more impatient laps behind my back, however, before he curses under his breath and leans over my shoulder. “Mishka… come on! I'm hungry, too! I can't stand back here forever!”

Beel frowns. “That's not how asking permission works, Mammon.”

“ARGH! Why you gotta be such a goodie two-shoes all the time! You can't help me out this one lousy time?!”

“Help? How can I help? You’re the one who has to… Oh! I get it!” Clearly inspired by… uh, something… Beel carefully sets down his knife and fork (!!!) and politely clasps his hands together on the table. “Mishka, may I please finish this cockatrice?”

…so **that's** what that is.

I pat his hand. “Of course you can.”

“Thank you, Ma'am.” He retrieves his cutlery as carefully as he set it down, and gets back to carving up his.. err… bird? “That's how you do it. Now you try.”

Hehehe. Beel solves problems like a five-year old. His help isn't always very helpful, but bless his sweet heart, he tries his best.

“Beel, that ain't the kinda… ugh. Whatever. Miiiishkaaaa, can I puh-leeeeeease sit down?” Cute. He did the eyeroll and everything.

Close enough.

“Mhmm. Have a seat, hun.”

“Finally!!” He breathes such an exaggerated sigh of relief as he drops into his chair that you'd think he’d been on his feet for a week. Guess he's not that worried about those nasty splinters anymore, eh? “Oh, man! That's SO much better! But, uhh… you've gotta let my hands go if I'm gonna… err, I mean… ” He leans waaaaay over, until his chair’s balancing on two legs, so he can mumble the rest in my ear. “Mishka, can you… I mean, uhh… would you… let me have my hands back so I can eat? Uhh… ya know… please?”

Oooooooh. He sure picked that one up quickly, didn't he? And all on his own, too.

“That was perfect,” I whisper back, just to watch him blush. “You can eat just fine, though. You don't need to ask.”

“Huh? But how am I supposed to-"

“Beel, could you pass the cheese sauce, please? Thanks, hun.” I don't know what sort of animal you milk to get cheese in the Devildom, but this stuff is to **die** for. Now then; where was I? “Mammon,” I sigh, “did you actually listen to how that rule works?”

“Well… yeah! I heard everything you said, right up until the part when I tuned you out.” He cringes as he hears himself say the second part out loud.

“Hehe. That ‘telling the truth' deal’s the worst, eh?”

“Ugh. You got **no** idea.”

“Grab yourself a plate.”

“Pfft! You know I can't-"

“Try.”

He shoots me an unimpressed glare, then rolls his eyes and, without any effort at all, reaches across the table. “Hey! I ain't tied up no more!” Delighted beyond reason, he snatches a bowl of steaming noodles from under Beel's nose (and nearly gets a finger bitten off for his trouble). “So, this new rule,” he mumbles, through a mouth full of broth, “it ain't all the time, then?”

“Not at all. Play around with it a little,” I chuckle. “You'll figure it out.”

“Here, Mammon.” Beel slides a plate across the table. “Try this. I think you'll like it.”

“Thanks, little bro! I got some imp kebabs over here, you want'em?”

“Yes, please.”

Now everyone is smiling. Smiling, laughing, chatting; passing plates around and just… enjoying the company.

It's nice. On nights like this, I wish I could stay down here forever.

The first to start and the last to finish, Beel finally pushes himself away from the table, closes his eyes, and sighs a contented little sigh. “I'm full.”

I'm sure the feeling won't last long, but during those precious moments while it does…

He's never looked so happy.

As if he'd been waiting to hear that announcement for hours (he probably was, I bet) the Maître D appears out of nowhere and slides the bill across the table.

I reach for it… but I'm not quick enough.

Mammon beats me to it. “I got this.”

… I can only stare.

I think my mouth is hanging open.

Beel's staring, too, wide-eyed and utterly stupefied.

Mammon doesn't seem to notice any of it. Humming happily to himself, he checks the total, whistles under his breath (it must be through the ROOF), quickly calculates a perfect fifteen percent tip in his head, and drops a credit card onto the receipt. He looks… so proud of himself. “Ooooh, man! I ain't had a meal that good in centuries!”

Now that he's not doing anything constructive with his hands, they start to ease their way behind his back again… but instead of being bothered, he just yawns, stretches one last time, and does it himself. “Hey. Mishka.” He kicks me under the table, but I barely feel it. I think my brain is malfunctioning. “Yo yo, you listening? Can I go to the bathroom? Uhh… ya know …please?”

“…Uh huh.”

“Aw, yeah! I'm gettin’ the hang of this slave-junk! Score another one for the Great Mammon!!” He bounces off towards the back of the restaurant, leaving Beel and I gaping like idiot goldfish.

“Mishka…?”

“Uh huh?”

“Did he just…?”

“Uh huh.”

“The whole bill?”

“Uh huh.”

So now I'm just staring at a four-figure restaurant tab, tallied on an innocuous piece of receipt paper, with Mammon's calculations scribbled across the bottom and a blue and red credit card sitting on-

I drop my head into my hands so hard that it rattles the table. 

“Mishka?? What's wrong??”

“…that's **my** fucking credit card.”


	7. This would be... Plan C?

“Mishka! MISHKA! Miiiiiishkaaaaaaaaaa! Ya can't ignore me forever, girl! I know you can hear me!”

….ugh. I should've thought this through.

It's been two days since our evening out at Ristorante Six, and I haven't yet decided if they've been the best, or most exhausting, two days of my life. On the one hand, I finally get to spend all my time with Mammon, and on the other… I have to spend **ALL** my time with **_MAMMON_**. I mean sure, yes, I love him to death, but that boy has NO concept of personal space or anything even remotely resembling an ‘inside voice’.

He's a puppy. A six-foot tall, hyperactive puppy that chews on everything and won't stop pissing on the carpet anytime he gets excited. You know that moment when you come home from work to find eight tons of stuffing from your couch exploded all over the livingroom, and wonder if you bit off more than you can chew? That moment has been my entire weekend. I wouldn't trade him for the world, but crating his ass for a few hours here or there would do wonders for my sanity.

“…yes, Mammon?”

“HA! I KNEW you could hear me!” (Yeah, obviously. He's never more than ten feet away. I can **always** hear him.) “Can I go out? Pretty pretty pretty pleeeaaaase?”

I sigh. “You're not planning another stunt like yesterday, are you?”

I let him off leash for an hour yesterday, and he spent the entirety of that hour jury-rigging the 2nd floor vending machine to pay out like casino slots. (I have no idea how he pulled that off without using his hands, so either our pact considers pilfering fourteen dollars and twenty-five cents in quarters ‘constructive', or he's found himself yet another loophole.)

“No way! That machine won't be full again for weeks!” (Right. Like **that** was my concern.) “I’m supposed to go meet somebody, that's all. Totally harmless, right?”

He's telling the truth (of course), but being intentionally vague about it. Yet another work-around that he's figured out with lightning speed: there's a world of difference between ‘the truth' and ‘the **whole** truth'. Credit where credit’s due… he might not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but he learns **fast**.

“C'mon, Mishka! I asked nice! I even,” he interrupts himself with a massive yawn, then blinks his bloodshot eyes and shakes his head. “Oh, man. This slave stuff is seriously tiring me out,” he mutters.

Yeah. Me too. He's been awake for a day and a half (which means that, unfortunately, so have I), courtesy of a new Rule that I'll get into later. He's earned himself three more, actually, in two days, and I don't know if that's impressive or pathetic.

You'd almost think he was doing it on purpose.

“Fine,” I concede. “Go.”

“Hahaha! Thanks, Mishka! You're the best!” He bolts out of the room before I can change my mind, which should be a relief, but…

…ugh. Just ugh, again. I should probably see what he's up to. I give him a fair head-start (one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-) and follow him.

At least his bell makes him easy to track. He might’ve figured out a hundred loopholes to my Rules already, but he hasn't yet figured out how to shut that silly thing up.

I duck behind my favorite potted plant as he stops to grab something that he had stashed behind a statue (I can't see what it is, from here) and continues on his way. Ok, now I'm really curious. Down the hall, third door on the left…

Is Satan's room.

Well now. This should be fun.

“Hey! You in there?!” Without waiting for an answer, he barges right in. I did say he has no concept of personal space, didn't I?

I'm tempted to follow right along, but… I dunno. This could be interesting. I creep up and press my ear against the door, instead.

“- et out of my room. There's somewhere I need to be, and I'm already running late.”

“There's always somewhere you need to be, but this is way more important! Look, I need your help, ok? I'm cursed, and you know more about this stuff than anyone, so just hear me out!”

Oh, **cursed** , is he? Geez, Louise. What a crybaby.

“Cursed?” If anything could pique Satan's interest, it's that. (Or a kitten.) “By whom?”

“Mishka!”

There's a long, but not unexpected, silence, before a very deadpan, “Mishka cursed you.”

“Yeah! It's wicked bad, like, a thousand times worse than any of yours! You gotta help me!”

“…is she a witch, and I somehow don't know about it?”

“A witch?! No, no! She's just a boring old human!”

Gee, thanks.

“Then she hasn't cursed you. And put that down. You're going to… ah, hmm. Nevermind.” Even through the door, I can hear his exasperated sigh. “Fine, Mammon. I'll bite. Tell me about this ‘curse'.”

“Ok, so… see this? She's making me wear it all the time – even out in public! – and I can't get it off! And so long as I'm wearing it, she's givin' me all these rules I gotta follow. Every time I do somethin' bad, I get another one! Soon I ain't even gonna be able to breathe without askin' first! She's worse than Lucifer!”

…I'll take that as a compliment.

“…She’s giving you ‘a rule.’ What does that mean, exactly?”

“Well, like, for starters, I had to ask permission just to come see you. Me! THE Mammon, askin’ a human for permission just to visit my own brother!”

“…That's it?”

“Nuh uh, there's more! Lots more! She's makin’ me be honest all the time – all the time! About everything! Can you believe that?! I can't touch nothin' that ain't mine, I can't sleep in class, I can't-"

“Alright. That's enough.” Another long, contemplative silence. Sounds like Satan is, at the very least, willing to hear him out. “Mammon, I saw you in class on Friday, and you weren't wearing any collar. When did this begin?”

“Friday night. Soon as Mishka got back, and she caught me… err… just hangin’ out in her room. I wasn't touchin’ nothing!”

“…Sure you weren't. But fine, I'll play along. Three days ago. How many of these ‘rules' has she stuck you with, since then?”

“Err… well, there's the sleepin' one, and that whole furniture thing, and the kneelin' one, and…”

“How many.” It's not inflected like a question. It's inflected like, Stop Wasting My Time, I Have Places To Be.

“Aw geez… Six? Right, yeah. Six.”

Seven, actually. Guess they can't be bothering him that much if he can't even keep a proper tally, hmm?

“Six. In three days.” There's that sigh again. “Alright, Mammon. Let me make sure I understand your… situation. Whenever you… how did you put it? ‘Do something bad’? Right. Whenever you ‘do something bad’, Mishka is using her pact with you to punish you by… forcing you to be a polite, respectful, decent person?”

“Exactly! C'mon man, you gotta get me out of this!”

…Satan starts laughing.

Now there's something you don't hear everyday. Not gonna lie, there's something a touch… unsettling about it. That's Satan in a nutshell, though; he's an elegant hotel suite where every picture is hung just a tiny bit crooked.

“HEY! Knock it off, jerk-face! This ain't funny!!”

It takes him a minute to bring his laughter down to a quiet, thoroughly amused chuckle. “Mammon, you're not cursed, you're just an idiot. There's a difference. Have you tried just… not doing stupid things?”

“Huh? What's that supposta mean?!”

“…Nevermind. Listen; you know as well as I do that there's no getting out of a pact once it's been sealed. I can't help you. Go talk to Mishka. Or… on second thought… why don't I just give her a call right now?”

“DON'T YOU DARE! GIMME THAT PHONE!!”

Well, let's save them the both trouble, shall we?

Knock knock. “Satan? You home?”

“YIPE! SATAN IT'S MISHKA YOU GOTTA HIDE ME!”

Oh, great plan, dipshit. Five bucks says I find him standing in the corner with a lampshade on his head.

“…Mammon, you know she can hear you, right? Evening, Mishka,” he calls through the door. “Please come in.”

“NO NO NO YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND A BUNCHA MY DUMB RULES ARE ALL GONNA KICK IN AT ONCE AS SOON AS SHE – EEEP!”

“I was rather hoping they would,” Satan smiles, as he rises to greet me. “Mishka.” He kisses me on both cheeks. “A pleasure, as always. Have a seat. I believe I have something that belongs to you.”

“Certainly looks that way, doesn't it?” I clear a few heavy books off a plush, antique chair and make myself comfortable. “You boys been having fun?”

“Not really, but I’m hoping that's about to change. So, how long does it take before-"

Mammon, who never did find a hiding spot (or even a lampshade), suddenly goes rigid, then starts to tremble. “Oh man, I can't believe… you're gonna… make me do this… with Satan watchin'! Mishka, come on! This is… so humiliat-NNNNGH!”

“’Bout that long,” I chuckle.

Humiliating or not, he doesn't put up a fight. With a half-hearted groan, he gets down on his knees all on his own, before the pull of his invisible chain gets strong enough to slam him down whether he likes it or not. (Only once did he let it get that far, and that mistake saw him hit the floor so hard I was sure he'd shattered both kneecaps.)

Satan looks positively spellbound. I don't even think he's blinking.

Mammon, on the other hand, looks about as unimpressed as a high school librarian. He hit the hardwood floor about four inches to the left of a very nice rug, and now he's trying to, sort of… slide himself onto it, presumably for comfort's sake. Since he can't lift his knees off the floor, though, all he keeps managing to do is bunch up the edge into a frustrating little accordion. He keeps trying, though, and the longer he does, the more it occurs to me that maybe he's not trying to find a soft place to kneel after all – maybe he just needs something to keep his attention off the fact that we're both overtly staring at him, and neither of us is trying to be polite about it.

“…He’s being awfully quiet,” Satan finally says.

“He can't talk.”

“Ahhhh.”

We both go back to staring. The longer the room stays quiet, the brighter Mammon's cheeks burn, until he gives up on the carpet and just hunches down to ignore us the old-fashioned way.

“Can he stand up?”

“Nope.”

Hmm.. there's still something wrong with this picture. His hands should be fixed securely behind his back, too, but they aren't. Instead, he's holding something that looks like… a Rubick's Cube? That must be what he snatched out from behind the statue on the way here. It's the right size and the right shape, and he's restlessly twisting sides of it this way and that, but instead of bright primary colours, each little square is decorated with sinister, glowing runes that keep changing shape the longer I look at them. It's a little nauseating to watch, actually.

“Satan… what is that?”

“Pandora's Box,” he smirks. “So you‘d better hope, for the sake of your species, that he doesn't solve it.”

“THE Pandora's Box?” Well, **that's** not fucking good. “Are you sure it's safe to be letting him play with it like that?”

Playing with it is **exactly** what he's doing. He's not trying to figure it out; he's not even looking at it. He's just aimlessly twisting sides, around and around, and-

Oh. I get it. He's not trying to unleash death and suffering and torment and all other manner of unspecified evils onto the world, he's just giving his hands something constructive to do so he doesn't have to keep them behind his back.

It's the most terrifying, selfish loophole I could ever imagine.

“Uhh… shouldn't you take it away from him?”

Satan shrugs. “He isn't smart enough to solve it. And even if he does, the look on Lucifer's face would be absolutely priceless. It's a win-win.”

…Riiiiiight. I'm just gonna take it back anyway, thanks. I hold out my hand.

He sighs, and hands it over without a fuss.

-ew, ew, EWW. What the hell?! This weird-ass deathcube is dry as a bone, but feels… moist. Everything about it feels wrong. It's warm and mealy and… flexing, like a muscle without any skin. I immediately hate everything about it, and toss it to Satan. “Gross! Take it!”

“Gladly.” He disappears it off to… somewhere, and I'm glad to see it go.

Mammon watches forlornly as his last, best loophole vanishes into thin air, then grimaces as his unoccupied hands are forced together behind his back.

There. Much better. **Now** he looks like a proper slave.

God, he's so fucking hot like this. I should put him on display more often. “Good boy, Mammon. You're making me proud to call you mine. ”

He blushes again, and… awww. Kneels up a little straighter. He might not like having an audience, but he **loves** being my good boy.

“…Interesting,” is Satan's take on it. “You haven't commanded him once, but he's clearly obeying… something.” He reaches around behind him to pull a leather-bound book off the desk, flips to a blank page near the end and starts taking notes. “Mishka, what you've done here is fascinating. I've never seen the magic of a pact manipulated… quite like this.” He leaves his book open on the desk and crouches down to take a closer look. “May I?”

Mammon takes a second to look mortified, then shakes his head in an enthusiastic No Freakin' Way! (“MMMmMMMM!!”), and leans as far away as he can, which ends up being about, oh, a generous eight inches or so.

Satan rolls his eyes. “Quiet. Nobody asked you. Mishka?”

Ok, well, I didn't let Asmo touch him, but I highly doubt that Satan'll do anything to him that he'll have to cry about later in the shower, so… “Be my guest. As long as you don't try to take his collar off, he won't bite.”

Without so much as a Thank You, He lays both hands on his brother's chest and starts… exploring. He's not molesting him, per se, (though Mammon’s uncomfortable squirming seems to disagree), he's more… examining him. Like a doctor.

Err… maybe more like a dog show judge, actually.

I can't look away... and all of a sudden, I can't seem to get comfortable, either. Satan's so close to Mammon's cheek that he's practically breathing in his ear, and seems determined to feel way over every last inch of his captive subject. Nothing seems off-limits (and I mean **nothing** ), and there's not a goddamn thing Mammon can do about it.

Poor Mammon. He’s turned a shade of red so bright you could name a crayon after it, but is actually tolerating the humiliating exam pretty well, all things considered. He's keeping quiet, at least, and seems to be trying his hardest to cooperate; even when one curious hand slips up inside his shirt, all he does is stiffen up, clench his jaw and lock his eyes firmly on the ceiling.

Mmmmmm. **There's** my good boy.

Once Satan gets all the way back to where he started, he rolls back on his heels, takes his brother’s chin in his hands, and finally looks him in the eye. “Oh, Mammon,” he sighs, “what **have** you gotten yourself into? ‘He won't bite', she says. Of course you won't. You couldn't bite me even if you wanted to.” He brushes a bit of white hair out of the way, then leans in and chastely kisses him on the lips. “You can't even open your mouth, can you?”

Mammon just stares, wide-eyed, until the shock wears off, then, wearing an expression like he's ashamed to admit it, slowly shakes his head. “MmNn.”

Huh? He can't? But I never-

“…ah, shit.”

Satan raises an eyebrow. “Mishka….?”

“…sorry. I just realized that I might've… worded one of his rules poorly. When I told him that he couldn't open his mouth, I meant it… metaphorically. Like, that he can’t talk. But…”

“…but the language of magic is entirely literal,” Satan finishes. He shoots me a straight-up judgmental look. “If you're going to be ordering my brother around, you need to be more careful.”

…Yes, Satan.

Sorry, Satan.

Apparently satisfied, Satan abandons his spot on the floor and goes back to recording notes. After a few awkward minutes of silence (it's like he's completely forgotten there's anyone else in the room), I work up enough courage to interrupt the Avatar of Wrath while he's working. “Uhh… didn't you have somewhere to be?”

“Oh, damn,” he mutters. He grabs his DDD, sends one short message, and goes right back to his book. “Not anymore.”

“O…k… Well, did you learn everything you wanted to learn?”

“Not yet. Mishka, please.”

Sheesh, _fine_. You invited me, remember?

Ah, well. Beel eats my breakfast if I'm late to the table, Levi whines when he loses and Satan gets aloof when he's focused on something. None of them are perfect.

They **are** demons, after all.

HA. Ok, Satan might be otherwise occupied, but Mammon certainly isn't, and now that he's no longer the centre of attention, he's slowly (very, very sloooowly) inching his hobbled ass towards my chair. Guess he's gettin' out while the gettin's good, and frankly, I don't blame him.

“Oh, Mammon. You've been down there long enough, I think. You're released.”

“’Bout time! Sheesh!!!” He's on his feet so fast you'd think the floor was on fire… but after one huge stretch to get all the kinks out, he trots over and sits right back on the floor, with his back against the side of my chair and his head tipped over the arm so he can look at me upside-down. “You're killin' me with all these stupid rules, ya know that?”

I chuckle, and start running my fingers through his hair. “Don't pretend you don't like it.”

“Released,” Satan interrupts, with his quill poised an inch above his paper, “what does that mean, exactly?”

(Isn't it 2020? Who the hell writes with a quill??)

“It means he's free from one of his ‘dumb rules'. Namely, the one that forces him to kneel down and keep his mouth shut whenever he sees me.”

Satan looks over his shoulder and gives us both a quick once-over. “… he still has his hands behind his back.”

“That's a different rule,” Mammon mutters. “That one only goes away if I've got somethin’ to do.” He sighs, makes an exaggerated show of being uncomfortable, then gives me his best puppy-dog eyes. “Speakin' of which… can I have my cube back?”

“No.”

“Aww, come on! I'm askin' nice!”

“No.”

“Hrrmph.” He's cute when he's pouting. “You're mean.”

“I know. How’d you get that thing, anyways?”

“I… uhh… borrowed it from Lucifer's room. But I was gonna give it back, I swear!”

Funny. He must actually believe that, if he can say it to my face.

“Uh huh. And how'd you steal it without using your hands, huh?”

“Aww, geez…” He hums and haws as long as he can, until he can't keep it in any longer. “Hnnnh!!! Ok, see, you're still thinking like a human. I… uhh… oh, man. I got wings, ok? They ain't great at holdin' things, but they work kinda like clumsy little hands, if they gotta.”

Ahhhhhhhh. What a sneaky bugger.

Now I can't stop smiling at the mental image of Mammon pawing through Lucifer's desk with his wings like a mischievous little fruit bat.

“Is that how you got into the vending machine, too?”

“…yeah,” he sighs. “Oh, man. You ain't gonna give me a new rule for that, are ya?”

“Not yet, hun. You've been so good today that I think I can let that one slide. Oh, and… yeah, I'm sorry about making you literally keep your mouth shut. Satan’s right; I need to be more careful.”

“Damn right you do,” he snorts. “That mean you're gonna change it? Like, if I gotta keep quiet, fine, but not bein' able to open my mouth at all is just **annoying**.”

Which brings us to the million dollar question, ladies and gentlemen: “That depends,” I smirk. “Do you **want** me to change it?”

The fact that he's answering my questions at all might seem entirely out of character, but he's only doing it because he has no choice. It's another of his new rules, and… well, allow me a brief recap, if you will, just so we're all on the same page.

When I let him leave my room last night, it was only partially because he begged me to let him out. Mostly, I caved because I badly needed some peace and quiet. I can only take so much, “Mishka! Mishka! MishkaMishkaMishka whatcha doin’ can I have some crackers I'm STARVING Mishka hey look what I found I think it's GOLD no wait it's a rock Mishka Miiiiishkaaaaa pay attention to meeeee !” before my brain starts to melt like fondue cheese.

I'd barely gotten to sleep when he'd come crashing back in, with all the tact of a rampaging boar. “MISHKA ARE YOU SLEEPING WAKE UP AND LOOK WHAT I GOT!”

And so, his first new rule: Whenever you enter my presence, get on your **goddamn** knees, shut your mouth and fucking **stay like that** until I release you. A little harsh, maybe, but in my defense, I do **not** enjoy being woken up. At all. Ever. **Especially** not by someone raving at the volume of a landing commuter plane.

His next rule, earned not fifteen minutes later, was: When I ask you a question, you **answer** it. This, after he'd run me in circles trying to sidestep the question, “where the fuck did you get a sockful of quarters in the middle of the goddamn night?!”

And during the resultant whining, whimpering bitchfest, when he'd started begging to go back to his room so he could, “crash without some crummy, ingrate human bossing him around,” came number three: If you want to sleep, you'll do it right here, beside my bed, and nowhere else.

In my defense, I'm not going to force him to sleep on the floor. That would be mean. I bought him a big, fluffy, dog bed, one sized for a great Dane or a hellhound puppy or something. I'm sure it'd be comfortable enough, if he'd just try it out, but so far, he's preferred to just stay WIDE awake like a tweaking meth-head, instead.

Which brings us back to this conversation. Combine the fact that he has to answer my questions with the fact that he can't lie to me, and, well… 

You get this.

“Do you **want** me to change it?”

“Mishka!!! Don't… don't ask me that kinda stuff **here** ,” he loudly whispers, (which defeats the whole purpose of whispering.) “Satan can hear everything we're… nnnngh! Dammit!” He scrambles onto his knees so he can reach high enough to ramble his answer, at about mach five, straight in my ear. “No it's better your way I don't get in so much trouble when I gotta keep my mouth shut and it ain't **so** bad ‘cept that Satan's here and ARGH I'M GONNA STOP TALKING NOW!”

Hehehe. That's what I thought.

Grumbling under his breath, he slumps down in a huff… but cocks his head to one side, so my scratches can still reach the nape of his neck.

“Hehehe. Mammon, did you know that you've got a sweet spot right… here?”

I think his eyes just rolled back into his head. “Yeah… yeah, I know! Hey – HEY! Quit that! Hahaha! Knock it off!! Ya know I'm ticklish!!!”

“Want me to stop?”

“NO WAY! HAHAHA I MEAN YES!! I MEAN HAHAHAHAAARGH I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WANT!”

“You two are insufferable,” Satan mutters. “Mishka, I have a favour to ask.”

Bah. Buzzkill. He must be finished whatever he was doing, which means that, by default, so is everyone else in the room.

I guess that means playtime’s over. “Yes?”

“I’d like to know if the power of our pacts is… transferrable. Mammon has to obey any command you give him,” (so do you, I think but don't dare say), “but what if one of those commands was to… obey another Master? Like, for the sake of argument and convenience… me. Would it work?”

“Ok, Satan,” I sigh. “What's really up? Why’re you so interested in all this?”

He frowns, and takes enough time to consider my question that I almost don't think he's going to answer at all. “Fair enough.” He steeples his fingers together and rests his chin on his hands, and… ugh. I feel a speech coming on. “I make a lot of pacts, Mishka. A lot of pacts, with a lot of humans.”

Mammon shakes his head. “Nuh uh. No you don't. You said before that-"

“I lied. I make pacts all the time; more often than any of my brothers, I bet.”

“Well that's… surprising,” I admit. “My money would've been on Asmo.”

“He gets propositioned less often than you might think. We don't go to them, remember; they come to us. However eager Asmo may be, there aren't a lot of humans out there willing to sell their eternal souls for a makeover. There is one thing, though, for which any human, under the right circumstances, would give up everything.”

“Yeah! Money!” Mammon's eyes are practically glittering. “Sweet, sweet moneeeeey!”

“No, Mammon,” Satan sighs. “It's not money. It's vengeance. What grieving mother wouldn't give up her soul, if it meant that the man who ran down her son, too drunk to even feel the impact, would pay for his crime? What father wouldn't trade eternity to see his eight-year old daughter’s rapist brought to justice, after the laws of the human world couldn't?”

“…Yo, uhh… Satan… go easy on all that stuff…”

“If you want to be beautiful, you sell your soul to the Avatar of Lust. If you want to be rich, you sell your soul to the Avatar of Greed. But if you want to set the worst things right, in all the worst ways…” Satan's eyes are boring right into mine, and the room suddenly feels about ten degrees colder, “you sell your soul to **me** , and in those last precious seconds before I rip you apart to get at what's mine, you'll know that someone, somewhere, just got what they so badly **_deserved_**.”

WELL THAT'S FUCKING TERRIFYING, THANKS SATAN

“HEY!! KNOCK IT OFF ALREADY! You're scarin' Mishka!”

“…Huh? …I am?”

“Totally! You know humans get all squeamish about that soul-stealing junk, and how scary you get when you're all wrath-y. Ease off, would ya?”

“Ahh… right. Sorry, Mishka.”

THAT'S OK I'M FINE BUT I THINK I JUST PEED A LITTLE SORRY ABOUT YOUR CHAIR

Mammon nudges my hand with his nose. “Hey, you! Snap out of it! You don't gotta be scared, nothing bad’s gonna happen. I've been protectin’ ya since day one, and I ain't gonna stop now. But, err… maybe don't pull so hard, ok? It's gettin' kinda hard to breathe down here.”

…Huh?

Oh. I've got two fingers through one of the rings of his collar, and didn't even realize it. I don't know how hard I was pulling, but my knuckles are white and I can't feel my fingertips. “Uhh… yeah. Sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah. But… ya know, if you're still scared later, and tell me I gotta sleep in your bed… it ain't like I could say no or nothin'. I mean, you're the boss, right? Long as I got this stupid collar on, anyway.”

And that, my friends, is why I fell in love with him.

Satan rolls his eyes. “Mammon, if you were any more transparent, you'd be a window. Can we get back to business?”

Oh, gee, so sorry that your scaring the literal piss out of me got us off topic. “Umm… suuuuure. You were, err… talking about making pacts with people, and why this silly game I'm playing with Mammon is getting you so worked up.”

“This isn't a game, Mishka. When most humans enter a pact with a demon, they do it with a single goal in mind. One command, that we cannot disobey. Make me rich. Build me a temple. Kill Theodore Allen Higsly, over on 4th and Spadina, and make sure he suffers every bit as long as Sarah did.”

…uhhh, that last one was **terrifyingly** specific, and you couldn't pay me enough to ask him why.

“We obey, and in exchange, take what we're owed, and that’s the end of it. Most pacts last less than a week, or even a day.” (Ok, I'm just gonna go ahead and pretend he didn't just casually admit to ripping souls out of living, breathing people.) I'd always assumed that the commands we’re given had to be short, simple, and immediate, but…”

“…but they don't,” Mammon grumbles. “They can be long, complicated, and for-stupid-ever. …And gross! Really, really gross! I can't believe you let him kiss me, Mishka! On the lips! What kinda raw deal is that, huh??”

“I can't believe I'm about to say this, but… Mammon's right. I was fine with taking simple orders from humans, considering the reward, but… if there's more to it than that; if these commands can be permanent things, I think I'd like to understand all the rules before I find myself tricked into kneeling at some human's feet with my hands tied behind my back.”

Mammon snorts and rolls his eyes. “I'm not **kneelin'** , I'm **sittin'**. See? My butt's on the floor, not my knees.”

Satan sighs. “Nobody cares about your butt, Mammon. Shut up.”

Hey now! That boy’s got an ass that could stop a parade, thank you very much.

“So… can this power be transferred? Traded? Could a wily human sell our services to the highest bidder? What happens if we're given an impossible command? These are important questions, and ones that your ‘little game’ seems uniquely qualified to answer. Considering the number of pacts I make, well… I hope you appreciate my concern.”

“…Ok, yeah. I get it. I'll help however I can.”

There's only one problem: I don't actually want to force Mammon to do anything he doesn't want to do.

Little ironic, eh?

I tap Mammon on the head. “So what do you say? Willing to be a guinea pig for a few hours?”

“NUH UH! NO WAY! THE GREAT MAMMON ain't nobody’s lab rat, and there ain't nothin' you can do to-"

“I'll pay you,” Satan deadpans.

“I'm in.” (Oh, for fuck's sake. Really??) “C'mon Mishka, what're ya waiting for? We gonna do this or not? I'm ready when you… hey, wait a minute.” He narrows his eyes at Satan. “How much?” is his first question, followed immediately by, “What exactly do I gotta do, huh?” Kinda seems like his second question should've been first, but hey, what do I know.

“500 Grimm?”

“A thousand!”

“Agreed.” (Well, **that** was easy.) “All you have to do is obey a few orders; nothing you're not already doing. I won't try anything that might hurt you.”

“…alright. Yeah, ok. I got this. Seems like real important stuff for all of us to know, right? Just… no makin' me do nothin' stupid, ok? And no demandin’ that I give any of my stuff away! That's MY stuff; I worked hard for it, and it's worth a fortune!”

Worked hard for it, eh? Suuuuuure you did.

“I'm not interested in your stuff, Mammon. Just you. Mishka?”

“Yup. Ok, well… here goes nothing: Mammon, Avatar of Greed, until midnight tonight, you will obey all of Satan's commands as if they were mine.”

The room goes quiet, and everyone's just kind of… looking at each other. I don't know what any of us was expecting to happen. Magical fireworks? An ominous thunderclap?

Mammon breaks the silence first. “…did it work? I don't feel any different. If it didn't work, you're still on the hook for my money, got it!?”

“Oh, don't worry. You'll get what you're owed,” Satan promises; a statement that makes Mammon smile and all the hairs on my arms get prickly. He walks to the far corner of the room and holds out one hand. “There's only one way to find out, I guess. Mammon… come.”

Mammon snorts in an indignant huff and stays right where he is. “Pffft. You're gonna have to do better than that if you think you can boss me ar-hnnng!” He winces and stiffens up, until he's kneeling as high as he can get. “Aww, sonofa…!” Grumbling under his breath, he pushes himself to his feet and practically storms across the room, until he's standing face to face with his brother. “There. I did your stupid command. Happy? Now pay up.”

Satan looks him up and down, then frowns. “Did you do that just because you wanted to get paid?”

“What the – you think I'm fakin'?! No way! It worked, ok? Felt just like it does when Mishka's bossin' me around; like there's a chain around my neck, pulling’ so hard that I gotta move. If I was fakin', I would’ve had to stay on my knees, right? Your order canceled hers out – so it had to be legit!”

Satan doesn't seem convinced, and if we're being perfectly honest here, neither am I.

“Try something else,” I advise. “Something he'd never do unless he had no choice.”

Satan considers his options for a minute, then nods. “Mammon… show me your true form.”

“What???!!! No! That's…that's goin' too far! We change when we feel like it, that's it! You know that! I can't just-ahhhhh… ARRRGH!” He doubles over like something just pierced his heart, then wails miserably and drops onto his hands and knees. He’s gagging and twisting and writhing like his appendix is about to explode, and I don't know what's happening, but I sure as shit can't watch it.

“Mammon?! MAMMON!” I'm on my feet in an instant, but Satan's even faster; he's beside my chair with a hand on my shoulder before I've taken even a single step. Demons are scary fucking fast, when they want to be.

“I wouldn't get too close, if I was you. The transformation will only take a second. He'll be fine; trust me.”

“But… I've seen you guys switch back and forth a hundred times, and it… I mean, it doesn't hurt, does it?”

“No. It doesn't hurt at all. It feels quite good, actually. But so does sex, until someone's forcing you to do it against your will.”

Wait, is that supposed to make me feel **better**?

I've never seen anything so awful. He's digging his fingers into the hardwood, all the way down to their first knuckles, and retching like cat about to throw up grass. There's a sick, bioluminescent glow radiating off his skin that's lighting up the whole far corner of the room.

“MAMMON!” Satan snarls, suddenly sounding waaaaay to much like the Avatar of Wrath to possibly be good, “STOP FIGHTING.”

As furious as he sounds, though, I can't shake the feeling that he's delivering the command for his brother's own good.

And just in time, too. No sooner does the order reach his ears that it takes hold, and forces its unwilling subject to obey. Mammon shudders so hard that I can see his shoulders shake, then groans and arches his back. The eerie glow coalesces into a brilliant white syrup, starting at his head and pouring over his back, and starts dripping onto the floor. Every drop that hits the ground becomes a shiny new penny, first one, then a dozen, then a hundred, until it sounds like someone is throwing away fistfuls of change.

They all change differently. When Lucifer transforms, it's inside a maelstrom of violet fire. When Satan transforms, it's beneath a waterfall of heavy black smoke. For my poor Mammon, it's… well, it's just like this.

One last penny, newly minted and shining brightly in the torchlight, hits the floor with a quiet ‘ting’ and rolls off under a bookshelf, leaving the Avatar of Greed, fully transformed, panting weakly on his hands and knees.

Hot damn. Wish I'd thought of that one three days ago. I love, and I mean **love** , absolutely everything about Mammon's demon form. I love his wings, that look like black leather but feel like soft cotton. I love his horns, delicate and unassuming and curled like warm taffy. I love his markings, or tattoos, or whatever they are (I've never asked), that, in just the right light, make him look like a a skeletal jungle cat. I love his tail, which he usually keeps so inconspicuously wrapped around his waist that it took me months to notice, that's thin as a whip and tipped with an impish spade, perfectly suited to a prankster like the Avatar of Greed.

And now I love his collar, that looks every bit the last piece of the puzzle I was hoping it would.

He stretches out his trembling wings, shakes his head to clear the cobwebs, then fires a viscous glare across the room.

“SATAN WHAT THE HELL?! THAT HURT!!!”

“…sorry, Mammon. I didn't expect it to happen… quite like that. Are you alright?”

“Hrrmmph. Yeah, I guess.” He gives himself a quick once over, like he's checking to makes sure he didn't sprout a second tail or something, then scowls at the floor. “I'm fine, no thanks to you. You owe me an extra hundred for pullin’ that stunt, though!”

“Deal.” Satan looks less concerned than curious, though, and steps back across the room to lay a hand on Mammon’s back. “Mammon, stay on all fours a while. It's a good look on you.”

“What?! After all that, you're still gonna try to order me around?!” He tries three or four times to get to his feet, but ends up back on his hands and knees every single time. “Dammit!!! I hate magic!” He prances in place like a cat with tinfoil on his paws, then flaps his wings in impotent frustration. “This ain't fair! Mishka! C'mon, let me up!”

“…sorry, hun. I'm not the one in charge right now, remember? You agreed to this, and besides… I have to side with Satan on this one. It **is** a good look on you. You look like a cranky gryphon,” I smirk.

Mammon hangs his head and curls his tail around his leg. “Aw, geez…” He crawls over to my chair and flops down against my feet, looking every bit like a dejected puppy. “You guys **suck**."

Mammon's reaction is exactly what I would’ve expected, but Satan's isn't. Rather than looking excited at the prospect of being able to order his brother around, he looks… well, worried.

“Satan? What's wrong?”

“…this isn't good, Mishka. Mammon really **is** obeying my commands.”

“Course I am,” Mammon grumbles. “Kinda thought that was the whole point, wasn't it?”

Satan frowns. “It was, but you clearly don't understand the significance. This means that any one of us, at any time, could be commanded to obey a master we never agreed to obey. You and I are only doing this for one night, but if Mishka wanted, she could force you to obey me forever, long after she dies and her pact with you should be broken. Think about it, Mammon. She could give you to me. Forever. Or she could force **me** to… ugh… obey **you**. She could give us both to Lucifer, if she wanted, and even **I** can't imagine a crueler torture than that. Oh, yes, Master Lucifer,” he whines, in a voice about 2 octaves higher than his own, “Right away, Master; your wish is my command, Master.” He looks torn between being incensed and wanting to throw up all over his shoes.

“UGH! Ok, ok, I get it,” Mammon mutters. “That'd be brutal. But… oh, ewww... I just thought of somethin' a million times worse than bein' ordered around by Lucifer.”

“…I doubt that.”

“Oh yeah? What about bein' ordered around by **Asmo**?”

If you ever wondered what it would take to make the Avatar of Wrath look like he's about to crap his pants, well… there you go. “I… stand corrected. Oh that's…” he shudders so hard that he interrupts himself. “…that's revolting. Mishka, never. Absolutely, positively, under no circumstances, EVER.”

Hehehehehehe… well, if I ever do, it'll be **their** fault for putting such a deliciously naughty idea in my head.

“Mishka…” Mammon's tugging on my sleeve like a despondent toddler. “…I grossed myself out just thinkin' about it. Can I go take a shower? I'll come right back, I swear.”

Satan shakes himself off (looks like Mammon's not the only one imagining dirty, nasty, sticky things) then coughs under his breath and quickly changes the subject. “So… he really does ask your permission before running off. I assumed he was lying about that.”

“Nope. Cute, eh?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of pathetic, but…”

“Hey! Who you callin' pathetic, ya wingless freakin’ goatsucker!!”

Satan blinks… then smiles.

…uh oh. That is **not** the friendly sort of smile. It's as dangerous as it is playful, like a porcelain doll with painted-on eyes and a fistful of cyanide.

See, here’s the weird thing about Satan. 99.99% of the time, he's the most patient, considerate, courteous demon; exactly what you'd expect from a being who used to be an angel.

The only problem is… Satan was _never_ an angel.

His façade is impeccable, of course, but sometimes, late at night, when the lights are low, the halls stand empty and there's nobody left to judge… well… I've only seen him get excited – **really** excited – twice, and both times, he was recounting something terrible he'd done to someone, which has led me to believe that the real reason he tries so, so hard to be good, is because deep down inside…

He's so, **so** bad.

And right now, for only the third time since I've known him… he looks excited.

I almost feel bad for Mammon.

“Oh, now that's not very nice,” he purrs. “You really ought to show a bit of respect, especially now that we've established that - until midnight, at least - **I own you**.”

Hehehe. If Mammon pressed himself any harder against my chair, he'd be underneath it. I must not be the only one feeling the sinfully sadistic vibe in the room right now.

“I really think that… ahh. That'll work just fine. Mammon, until midnight, you can call me Master - and **nothing** else. How does that sound?”

“Oh, I'll call ya **somethin'** all right, but it sure as hell ain't gonna be **that**.”

Satan grins, and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “We’ll see about that. And what are you doing way over there, anyway? Did I tell you you could sneak away?”

Mammon's starting to squirm. “Err… well, no, but… Hey… uhh… come on! This is supposed ta be… ya know, an experiment. You're not… not supposed to be enjoying it.”

“Can't I do both? Mammon, come.” He snaps his fingers, and points to the floor at his feet. “NOW.”

Mammon looks at me instead, wide-eyed and quietly whimpering. Huh? He's not hoping I'll come to his rescue, is he? I kiss the top of his head and whisper him a few words of encouragement, instead. “Go. Make me proud.”

He swallows nervously, nods, then takes a deep breath and slinks across the room on all fours with his tail literally tucked between his legs.

His reluctant obedience is rewarded with a condescending pat between his horns. “Good boy. Still can't stand up?”

“…No. I… err… ya told me to stay down ‘for a while.’ I dunno how long that is, but… it's not yet, I guess.”

“Perfect. We'll just leave it like that, then, and see how long it lasts. Now then… what else do I need to know?” Satan thinks for a minute, drumming his fingers on Mammon's head, until he figures out his next move. “Ah, yes. Right. Let's see here…” He scans the nearest bookshelf, then pulls out a heavy textbook. After rifling quickly through the pages, he picks one he likes and holds the book open. “Mammon, solve problem nine for me.”

“…Huh? Seriously? You want me to… do your homework for you?”

“In the spirit of answering another pressing question… yes. That's exactly what I want you to do.”

“That's stupid! I don't even do my own homework! Master, ya can't just- AH DAMMIT!” He covers his face with his wings and shudders. “I did NOT just say that.”

Lol. Whoopsie.

“Yes, Mammon?” Satan, grinning like a demon who's just ripped someone's soul out, pats his humiliated plaything on the head. “You were saying?”

My boy might not know when he's won, but he sure as shit knows when he's lost. “Nothin'.” He folds his wings flat against his back, grumbles something under his breath, and faces up to the inevitable. With a heavy sigh, he tries to get high enough off the floor to see the page Satan's holding out for him. After three attempts, twice by pushing off his hands and once by propping himself up on his wings, he scowls and drops back onto all fours. “If you're gonna make me do these stupid tricks, _Master_ ,” he mutters, “the least ya could do is lemme see what I'm supposed to be doing.”

“Of course. Here.” Satan takes an elegant knee, and holds his book against floor.

“Yeah, yeah…” Mammon cocks his head and makes a grade-school effort of examining the textbook. “Nine?”

“Nine.”

With a derisive snort, he shakes his head. “Nope. Not gonna happen. Make me call you Master all you want, but do your own damn homework. That question don't even make sense! Is that supposed to be math?! It's fulla letters!” (…Does he mean algebra?) “So… can I stand up now? My knees are killin’ me down here!”

“Not yet,” Satan frowns, with his attention firmly fixed on the Great Unsolvable Problem Number 9. “Stay down.” He glances from Mammon, to the book and back again, poised and waiting for… something? When his expectant ‘something’ drags into the realm of ‘Obviously Nothing’, he snaps the book shut. “Interesting.”

It's my turn to look confused. “And the point of that was…?”

“Was to see what would happen if a demon was given a command he couldn't obey. I figured it would either do nothing at all, or tear him apart from the inside out.” (WAIT WHAT THE FUCK DUDE) “Apparently it's the former. That's good to know. Mammon, heel.” He gives the command offhandedly, even as he's already half-way across the room.

Rather than obey the simple command, Mammon frowns, paces in place for a second, then hangs his head between his shoulders. “I… I dunno that one, Master.” The third time’s the charm, I guess, because while he looks outright humiliated at having to say it, he doesn't try to stop himself. “I can't do nothin’ if I dunno what you want.”

Satan, on the other hand, looks absolutely tickled. “’Heel’ means… to stay at my side.”

“Oh! Oh, ok. I’m great at that one!” He practically trots up to his brother, until he's almost sitting his shoes, and looks up. For some weird reason, he looks unbelievably proud of himself. “Mishka makes me do it all the time.”

“…Really?”

“I make him stay within ten feet of me,” I clarify, “not eight inches. But if you really want him bound that close to you, I'm not gonna stop you. I will warn you, though: once he gets over his ego, he's ridiculously obedient. If you tell him to stay at heel, you're gonna spend the rest of the night tripping over him every time you turn around.”

“Hrrrrmm. That sounds… annoying. Thanks for the heads up. Mammon, forget that. You don't have to heel. Just…” He thinks for a few seconds, then shrugs and sits back at his desk. “Just come here and lay down.”

“Mammon, sit. Mammon, come. Mammon, lay down,” he grumbles, as he stretches out on the floor beside Satan’s chair and yawns. “Do I look like a damn dog or somethin'?”

Satan smirks. “Mammon, roll over.”

“That ain't funny. Just ‘cause you can order me around don't mean that ya can keep treatin' me like yo YIPE!!”

I'm trying hard not to laugh, but for fuck's sake. The poor bastard rolled himself over so hard that he cracked his head off a table leg.

Satan leans down and chuckles. “Now what did we learn?”

“Hrrph. That you're a pretty cruddy Master, that's what. ‘Least Mishka treats me nice.”

“I'm sure she does. Now quit complaining, or I'll make you chase your tail for an hour.”

“Eep! No no no, you don't gotta do that! I was just kiddin' about that crummy bit, you know that!” He laughs nervously, then makes a show of laying flat on his back with his hands tucked out of sight. “See? I'm bein' good! Just layin' on the floor, not complainin' 'bout nothin’!”

“Good. Now just hang out down there for a few minutes so I can get all this written down.”

“Yeah, ok, but… what am I supposed to do while I'm down here?”

“Nothing.”

Uhhhh… Satan must not know his brother nearly as well as he should, if he thinks that asking him to do absolutely nothing will be less annoying than tripping over his tail every thirty seconds.

The only sound in the room is the restless scratching of quill on parchment…

…for about forty-five seconds.

“…Master? Hey! Master?! Are ya done yet?”

“No.”

“But I'm boooooooored!”

“Not my problem.”

Maybe not, but… it will be in a minute, I bet.

“…can I see what you're writing?”

“No.”

“…can I help? I could tell ya what all this feels like from my end, maybe fill in some of the missing-"

“No. Mammon, **shut up**.”

Mammon rolls his eyes, growls under his breath and sets his sights on finding something else to occupy his time.

…uh oh. I hope the book he just snuck across the floor with his tail isn't full of magic or curses or anything, because the second he gets it into his hands, he starts humming happily and tearing out pages, one at a time.

I could stop him, but… maybe it's time that Satan learned a lesson of his own, hmm?

A paper airplane sails lazily across the room. Then another, in the opposite direction. The next one floats straight up… and lands silently, nose-first, in Satan's hair.

“What the… MAMMON! What are you – PUT THAT DOWN! Are you crazy?! That book is older than you are! It can't be replaced! Can you not just sit quietly for five minutes?!”

“You need to give him something to do,” I volunteer, just so nobody ends up murdered. “It's kinda like babysitting a toddler. Leave him on his own for more than a minute, and the next thing you know, there's drawings all over the wall and your keys are in the toilet.”

“Ugh. Go ahead, then; give him something to do. I need to finish this while it's all still fresh.”

“Nuh uh. You bought him. ‘Till midnight, he's your problem.”

With an exasperated sigh, Satan looks around the room. “Fine. There. Mammon, see those books in the corner?”

There's a whole pile of them sitting on the floor. Thirty, at least. You can't not see them. “MmHmm!”

“Good. Put them away.”

Clearly ecstatic to have something to do, Mammon nods, scuttles across the room and goes to work. He might not enjoy actual, physical work, but he enjoys doing nothing even less. Time is money, and the Avatar of Greed wastes neither.

The task keeps him busy for about… two whole minutes. Then he's right back at Satan's feet, tugging on his sleeve. “Mm MMM!” _(I'm done!)_

“Already? But how did you…”

Knowing Satan, every single book on his shelves is meticulously, anal-retentively organized.

…well, except for thirty, now.

Satan looks like he’s suffering a teeny tiny aneurysm. “Where did you put them?!”

Mammon, beaming with the pride of a job well done, points. Bookshelf!

“Yes, but where?!”

He points again. Bookshelf!

Satan drops his head into his hands. “MAAAMMMMOOOON!” (Holy shit, Lucifer, is that you?!) He transforms so quickly that the smoke hasn't even settled before he's on his feet, with his tail snapping like a bull whip, glaring down at his brother (who looks equal parts confused, ashamed and terrified) like he's a waste of perfectly good oxygen. “You can't just put them anywhere! Do you have any idea how long it's going to take me to find them now?! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! YOU'RE AS WORTHLESS AS YOU ARE STUPID!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Don't get mad at him; he did exactly what you told him to do. Mammon, come!”

He hauls all sorts of ass to my side, kneels on my feet and wraps his tail possessively around my ankle. Aw, geez. He's whimpering. And shivering. I pull him up against my legs and throw an arm around his chest, just so there's something between him and Satan's fury. “Satan! Calm down right the **fuck** now, or you'll be the one chasing your goddamn tail for the rest of the night! You're scaring him!”

The revelation that he's coming dangerously close to hurting someone he cares about is usually all it takes to snap him out of a tirade, and this time is no different. Satan blinks like he's just waking up, shakes his head… and frowns. “Oh, no. I'm… so sorry. When I get angry, I have… trouble controlling myself.”

“If you can't control yourself,” I snarl, “you have no business controlling anyone else. He can't even fight back, remember? I've never commanded you before, but so help me god, if you blow up on him again, I will make your life a _**living fucking nightmare.**_

I know it's flat-out suicidal to face off against an arch demon, but my hands are shaking, my blood is boiling and if I don't let it out, it's going to eat me alive. I shouldn't be **this** furious – I mean, he already apologized, for christ's sake! – but I **am**.

**_I so fucking am._ **

They're both staring at me. Mammon looks stunned. Satan looks… concerned. (Which is better than looking like he wants to tear my rib cage out through my mouth, which was pretty much the only other option.)

“Ah… sorry. Again. It's ok, Mishka; that was my fault. I've gotten so used to thinking of you as my sister that sometimes I forget you're not… Err, that is to say that the power of my wrath is so pervasive that it tends to be… contagious, to… lesser beings. It'll wear off in a second.”

Mammon snuggles up against my leg and squeezes my ankle with his tail. I take a deep breath to try and calm down, then start scratching between his horns.

Almost instantly, I feel better.

The Avatar of Greed: my sweet, sensitive, bat-winged emotional support demon.

“Thanks, hun,” I finally sigh, now that the whole room doesn't look red anymore. He tips his head back, until he's looking at me upside-down, and smiles.

That playful, boyish smile is more contagious than all the wrath in the Devildom. It's there, right **there** ; everything he can't admit out loud; every overflowing ounce of his love for me; it's all right there, shining so brightly in his eyes that I can't help wondering how I ever lived without him.

I hug him, as tightly as I can. “You're pretty amazing, you know that?”

He nods enthusiastically. “MmHmm!!”

Amazing, yes. Humble… not so much.

Satisfied that I'm feeling better, he turns around and fires a scathing look at his brother.

“Oh, don't look at me like that,” Satan grumbles. He's blushing, too, and I can only imagine it's from… guilt? Is that possible? “I said I was sorry. Even so… Mishka, I'll understand if you want to call off the rest of the night.”

“MMM?! MmmMMHMM!!! MM-MM!”

Now what the hell is that supposed to mean? And what's with the unsolicited hissy fit? I would've thought he'd be happy to get this over with, not fluttering and flapping and squealing like hungry baby pigeon. I raise an eyebrow. “Mammon, calm down. Nobody can understand a word you’re saying.”

“He wants to know if he'll still get paid, if we end things early.”

Mammon's spade-tipped tail is a perfect arrow, and he snaps it up and points it emphatically at his brother. _Exactly! What he said!_

“Of course you will,” Satan sighs. “Have you ever known me to back out of deal?”

“…NnNn. …Mrrph, mm MMnnMM Mph! MM Mph!”

Satan blinks. “A bonus? For what?!”

“MMNMMPHMM!!”

“Hrrmm… Fine. Losing my temper was uncalled for, I'll give you that. Two hundred?”

“MM!”

“Three. I suppose that's fair.”

WHAT THE CRAP IS GOING ON

“Wait – Satan, you can understand him?!”

“Of course. Mammon only talks about three things: Money, himself, and, more recently, you. Plus, Lucifer’s taped his mouth shut more times than I can count. After a couple thousand years, you get the hang of it.”

“Nobody else seems to understand him, though.”

“I’m the only one who ever listens to him.” (Well that's… kinda sad, actually.) “So… It's only 9:30. Are we finished?”

“Err… well, have you learned everything you wanted to learn?”

“I'll never learn everything I want to learn,” he chuckles.

“Well… we said midnight. It was a deal. You're keeping your end; I'd like to keep mine. So long as nobody drops off the deep end again,” Satan frowns at the floor, but keeps quiet, “then I say we finish out the night. Mammon? You ok with that?”

After a minute of indecisive squirming, he looks at his brother. “Mmnnn Mmm mm?”

“I promise. No more yelling.” As if to prove he means it, he closes his eyes and shifts quietly back to his more familiar form. A cloud of tiny black feathers, all that's left of his fury, sinks slowly to the floor. He watches them drift off into every corner of the room, then sighs. “I should know better by now than to do that in my own room. I'll be sweeping those up until next Tuesday. Unless…” he looks at Mammon, and the longer he looks, the more mischievous his smile gets, “unless you'd like to do it for me. Interested in spending two and a half hours picking my feathers off the floor with your tongue?”

Hehehe. Poor Mammon's got the whole wide-eyed, ‘deer in the headlights' thing going, like maybe if he stays perfectly, completely, absolutely still, Satan won't be able to see him.

And hey, who knows? Maybe it'll work. Who am I to assume that demons' vision isn't based on movement? I'm not a friggen demonologist.

Mammon's eyeballs creep from side of their sockets to the other, almost in slow motion, so he can look at me without moving a muscle.

“Well,” I concede, “I **did** tell him to keep you busy.”

Everything about him deflates at once. With a half-hearted whimper, he slinks across the floor, practically on his stomach, until he finds one teeny, tiny, lighter-than-air feather. Sporting a thoroughly disgusted look, he dips his head down, sticks his tongue out as far as he can, and-

“Wait! Mammon, wait!” Satan grabs him by collar and pulls him back up before he gets his first taste of dust bunnies and dirt. “I was joking! You don't have to-" He cuts himself off, furrows his brow to think for a minute, then looks at me.

I wink. Yup. Don't worry, Satan, you're not imagining things.

You never commanded him to do it.

You never commanded him to do anything at all.

That wasn't magic; that was all Mammon.

Satan seems about to point all that out, but after carefully studying my eyes, quickly reconsiders. “Ahem… yes. You don't have to obey that one, Mammon. I was kidding. I have more pressing questions to worry about than how many feathers you can find in an hour.”

Nice save.

“For instance… can you stand up yet? It's been almost half an hour.”

“Don't bother,” I say. “He can't. When you were asking him to solve your math problem, you told him to, and I quote, “stay down”. Commanding him to ‘stay' anything is permanent. That much, I've already figured out on my own. Or, at least, it's permanent until one of us releases him.”

“…Damn. You're right. I'll have to try that one again later. How about this, then? Mammon, are you able to shift back into your human form?”

Mammon shrugs, which is (to be fair), a perfectly reasonable answer to the question. One stern glare from his brother, though, is all it takes to convince him to actually try. He coils his tail around his waist, flattens his wings against his back, and squeezes his eyes shut. Without any more effort than that, he's immediately engulfed by that white, shining syrup, and comes out the other side looking practically human again.

Still on his hands and knees, of course, but human nonetheless.

“I suppose that means you could've changed back whenever you felt like it,” Satan muses. “I only commanded you to show your true form, not to keep it.” He looks forlornly at the open book still sitting on his desk, as if he desperately wants to write that down. “Mishka… he has instructions that only took effect when you came into the room. How did you word those, exactly?”

“Ummm… Let’s see. That one was… ‘As long as you’re wearing my collar, whenever you enter my presence, get on your knees and keep your mouth shut until I release you’.”

Or pretty close. I left out all the curse words, for decency’s sake.

“Right. Well worded.” He sounds impressed, and that's about the most flattering thing that Satan can be. “So lets try this: Mammon… so long as you’re wearing Mishka's collar, whenever you enter her presence, you’ll take on your demon form until she releases you. Assuming, of course,” he looks at me, “that you're ok with that.”

“No arguments here. But what are you-"

“I need to know if that command lasts past midnight. Let me know, would you?”

“Ahhh. Got it. No problem.”

“Perfect. Now then, Mammon. I have a job for you. You can stand up, if you like. And speak.”

He's on his feet even before the end of the sentence. “Aw yeah!! The Great Mammon's back, baby! Woohoo!!” He takes a quick break to clean himself up – fixes his glasses, combs his hair with his fingers, brushes the feathers off his knees – then runs out of time, and winces as his hands are yanked together behind his back. “Yowch! Dammit! I really gotta get the timing of that one down,” he mutters, “or one day it's gonna dislocate botha my damn shoulders at once.” He shrugs a few times, adjusting his invisible bondage until it's comfortable, then looks around the room like he's seeing it for the first time. “So! What do ya need me to do, Master? Oh… OH, EWWW. Do I **still** gotta keep callin' ya that?! Really??”

“Of course. We wouldn't want you forgetting who's in charge, would we?”

“Kinda hard to forget that when I gotta do every dumb thing ya tell me to do,” he grumbles. “Look, callin' ya that wasn't so bad, when I was on the floor and all, but sayin’ it to your face just feels… err… ok, ya know that gross, squirmy feelin' you get when you're gettin' outta the bath, and catch Asmo peekin' through the window?”

“Ugh. Unfortunately, I do.”

“Right. It feels like that. So maybe… I dunno, can that just be a ‘down on my knees' sorta thing?”

“No. It's just fine as an ‘‘all the time’ sorta thing’. Complain about it again, and I'll make you tack it onto the end of every single sentence,” Satan smirks. “Sound fair?”

Mammon mutters a dozen not-so-nice answers under his breath until he gets it all out of his system, then sighs. “Yes, Master.”

“Mmmm… I think I like the sound of that,” Satan purrs, with his eyes closed and a thin, dangerous smile on his lips. “I like it… a bit more than I should, perhaps. Mishka, my birthday’s coming up… and I think I just figured out **exactly** what I want.”

Ooooooo. You naughty closet sadist, you. Watching Satan dominate his humiliated brother for an entire day would be a much better party than candles and cake, that's for sure.

“I'll think about it,” I grin.

Mammon just looks confused. “Huh? Think about what? He never even told ya what he wanted. What if it's somethin' crazy expensive?”

Satan and I exchange a dead-pan look.

Moron.

“Nevermind, Mammon. It's not important, and my clock is ticking. Are you ready to go to work?”

“I guess so, yeah. Err… I mean, uhh… yes, Master.”

“Good. Very, **very** good.” Satan glances at me and smirks. “I like him better like this.”

“So do I.”

Mammon blushes, and I honestly have no idea whether it's courtesy of shame or pride.

…Maybe it's both. Can you be ashamed of yourself for being proud of yourself?

“Alright, well, you both know I had plans tonight,” aaand straight back to business, “and those plans, among other things, involved dinner. I'm not especially hungry, but I do need a little something to tide me over. Mishka?”

“I could eat.”

“Wonderful. Mammon, go down to the kitchen, fetch any ingredients you need to make something nice, and come straight back. You have five minutes.”

“Five minutes?! Are you serious?! That ain't even enough time to-"

“Four minutes and fifty seconds, now. I'd get moving, if I was you.”

“Eep! How the hell am I supposta – I mean, Right! Yes, Master! Be right back!”

“And a bottle of wine!” Satan calls, just as his brother bolts out the room.

“Keep yer hands off Mishka while I'm gone!” drifts back from somewhere down the hall. 

Satan chuckles to himself as he sits back at his desk, having at last managed to earn himself four minutes and fifty seconds of peace and quiet.

That leaves me with a question of my own, though. “Wonder what'll happen to him if he doesn't get back in time?”

“Nothing at all, if I chose my words carefully enough. That wasn't part of his command. He thinks it is, though, and that seems to be all that really matters.” He's talking and writing at the same time, and smirks at his book as he adds, “I just needed to scare him a little, so he didn't hang around the kitchen until eleven fifty-nine.”

Ahhh. That would be a perfectly Mammonesque loophole, wouldn't it? Satan clearly knows his brother better than he lets on.

“Mishka, clear off… no, no, that's not right…” He draws a slow, steady line through whatever he just wrote, thinks for a second, and starts writing again. “Mishka,” he begins again, “clear off the television in the corner. If we're staying in, we might as well make a night of it.”

In the corner. Uh huh. Which corner, Satan? Your weird-ass MC Escher drawing of a bedroom has about seven, and I doubt they're all actually real. You mean **that** corner? The corner that looks like a library collapsed into Hey, wait, what was that first part? Let's back that dolly trolley up a few stations, shall we? ‘Mishka, clear off the television’? Really? He's ordering **me** around now, too?

I’d be insulted, if I wasn't secretly as much a masochist as a sadist.

Bet my Master wouldn't be too impressed if he heard someone else bossing me around, hehehe. But since he's not here… Yes, Sir. I'll get right on it.

…which is easier said than done. It takes a minute of digging through piles and piles and **piles** of books (which I'm not even going to try and put back in their rightful places, thank you very much) before I finally unearth Satan's tv.

Uhhhhh… Ok. I don't… even know what to make of this… thing. To call this five-hundred pound, wood paneled monstrosity an antique would be an understatement. It's a goddamn relic. Is it even hooked up to anything? Does it have a remote, or am I just supposed to use these huge, clicking dials to

OH MY GOD IT'S BLACK AND WHITE IT'S A BLACK AND WHITE TV AND I LOVE IT

“Figured it out, did you?”

I nearly jump out of my skin; I had no idea he was even finished, let alone standing right over my shoulder. Why do demons have to be so goddamn sneaky all the time?!

“Uh, yeah. No problem. What're we watching?”

“A movie or two. What do you prefer? Romance? Comedy?” He brushes me out of the way, kneels down and starts clicking through the channels. The dial only goes from one to twenty, but somehow he's scrolled through a hundred a five channels already. Have I ever mentioned before how everything in the Devildom is just… weird?

“Horror, actually.”

“Then horror it is.” He finds what he's looking for (somehow), then spins one of his oversized sitting chairs around. I follow suit, lugging my own chair over, but he stops me three steps in. “There's no need for that.” He drops into his seat and kicks his feet up on a nearby ottoman, then shimmies as far over to one side of his chair as he can and pats the six inches of vacant leather beside him. “Sit here. With me.”

Gotta say, I'm a little flattered that he thinks my ass will fit into that teeny tiny space, hehe.

I squeeze in beside him, and he drapes an arm around my shoulders so we both fit.

“Uhh… not that I'm complaining,” I venture, “but since when do **you** like to cuddle?”

“I don't. But I **do** like making Mammon jealous,” he smirks. “And speaking of Mammon… this ‘game’ you're playing with him. It isn't going to work.”

“It's not?”

“No. He is what he is, as are we all. No matter what you do, no matter how many of these rules you saddle him with, he's never going to stop pestering you. I don't know if you know this, but…” he sighs, heavily, as if he's finally ready to divulge the deepest, darkest secret in the world, “he's been head-over-heels in love with you since the day he met you, which means this scheme of yours is destined to backfire. He's been searching for an excuse to be with you since day one, and now you've given him the perfect…”

He stops. Just… stops. He furrows his brow, as if he'd just been presented the most intriguing riddle. The look on his face morphs from confusion, to skepticism, to understanding, so gradually that I can pinpoint the precise moment it all suddenly makes sense. “…and now you've given him the perfect one.”

I smile.

About time somebody figured it out.

“Oh, Mishka. I daresay I underestimated you.” He leans back to look me in the eye. “I didn't even know you liked him.”

“I love him,” I admit, a confession that still feels weird to hear out loud. “And yeah, I already knew he felt the same way about me, even if he can't admit it. So if a convenient excuse is what he needs,” I shrug, “then that's what I'm gonna give him.”

“Then I take it all back. Maybe this game of yours is precisely what-"

He stops again, but instead of an epiphany this time, it's the delicate jingle of a tiny brass bell that cuts him off. He looks down at me and smiles. “Your pet is back.”

“Yup.”

“The bell was a nice touch. At least now I can pretend I'm not at home when I hear him coming.”

“Hey, if it's good enough to save songbirds from cats, it's good enough to save everyone else from Mammon,” I smirk.

The jingling stops for a second, just outside the door, then starts up again.

“He's pacing,” Satan chuckles.

“Sure is. Probably holding out until his whole five minutes is up.”

“It's been seven.”

“Yeah, but **he** doesn't know that. Mammon,” I call, loud enough that I know he can hear me through the door, “is that you?”

“Your five minutes is almost up,” Satan adds, without missing a beat, “so you'd better come back in here before Mishka and I have time to kiss.”

I quirk an eyebrow. Satan just smiles. “I told you: I like making Mammon jealous.”

The door slams open so hard that it might never close properly again. “HEY HEY HEY!! What did I say before I left, huh? Keep those touchy-feely hands to yourself, ya hear!” He takes one look at Satan and me, cuddled together in a chair that's just a little bit too small, and blanches like overcooked asparagus. “What do you two think you're doin'?! That chair ain't big enough for two people! Master, get away from her!”

“Oh, relax,” Satan says. “You don't have time to be bothered, considering you only have about five seconds left.”

Four

“Huh? Five seconds till what?”

Three

Satan looks at me and sighs. “Mishka, I'm afraid I have some bad news. The man you're in love with has the IQ of a houseplant.”

Two

Yuh huh. Trust me, I know.

One

“NNNGHH!” Mammon drops to his knees, **hard** , and shape-shifts so violently it's almost painful to watch. It all happens so quickly that he looks plain-old flat-out confused, as if he has no idea what the hell just happened. The instant he gets his bearings rolling again, though, he's right back into the swing of things. “MmmNnn!! MNMPH NNNGHMMmmMmmmMMMMPH!!”

“Satan? Translation?”

“With pleasure.” He loudly clears his throat. “Ahemem… and I quote: ‘In love?! No way! Mishka ain't in love with nobody!! She woulda told me! My name’s Mammon, and I still sleep with a nightlight on!”

OH MY GOD I'M DYING. I'm laughing so hard I'm crying, and I know it's mean but the only thing that could stop me now is a well-timed lightning strike. Since when does Satan crack friggen jokes?!

Oh no! Oh no oh no oh no, poor Mammon looks absolutely devastated. I'd better do something to fix that, or I won't be able to look at myself in the mirror tonight. “Oh, Mammon; I'm so sorry. You're totally right; I'm not in love with anyone else.” He looks so relieved I'm surprised he isn't melting right into the floor. “You're the only demon I want at my side, you know that. I wouldn't have collared you if I wanted to be with anyone else, would I?”

Already perked right up, he hugs his grocery bags, flutters his wings and happily shakes his head. “Hmm hmm hmmmmm!”

Awww, lookit how proud he is! For all his more…trying qualities, if you can shut him up for fifteen minutes, he really is the sweetest, most endearing demon in the Devildom. He sings to himself when he's happy, bounces when he gets excited, and does, in fact, sleep with a nightlight. (He claims it's so he can keep an eye on all his stuff. He's actually just afraid of the dark.)

“There ya go, hun. Much better, right? Now let's see what you managed to scavenge from the kitchen. Mammon, you're released. But… don't change back quite yet, hun. I absolutely **adore** your wings. You should bring them out more often.”

There's that adorable blush again. “You don't… don't really mean that. It ain't nice to make fun.” He folds his wings self-consciously over his shoulders. “Everyone knows humans like soft stuff, like feathers and fur and junk, not batty wings like I got.”

With my head against Satan's chest, I can't see his face, but I'm pretty sure I just **heard** him roll his eyes. “Mammon, grow up. You're starting to sound like Levi. Mishka's not like normal humans, you know that. If she says she likes your wings, then she means it. Stop being stupid, and just accept the compliment.”

Wow. Who ever would've thought that the Avatar of Wrath could make such a good wingman?

Already looking for someplace to dump the half-dozen grocery bags that are slung over his arms, Mammon hesitantly unfurls his wings. “Well, I **guess** I can stay like this for a little bit… but only cause I got no choice.” He makes an exaggerated show of yawning, which spreads his wings as wide as they can get and makes him look like the shyest peacock in the world, then frowns over his shoulder. “Just don't make me go out like this, okay? Lucifer gets real mad when we walk around with our horns out for no good reason. He says it don't look ‘professional’, whatever that means.” Finding no good places to set up shop, he grabs an end table covered in books and lifts one side high enough to unceremoniously dump everything onto the floor.

Satan goes rigid. He digs his nails so hard into the arm of our chair so hard that I'm almost afraid he's going to pierce right through the leather… but he keeps his outrage to himself, this time, and reluctantly lets Mammon do his thing.

“Ok, let's see here… Beel was in the kitchen, and five minutes ain't a lot of time, but I think I got some decent stuff. Oh! I got your wine, though! You wanted that, right Master?”

The title soothes Satan's fury like nothing else could. “I certainly did. Pour me and Mishka a glass before you go to work. Our movie’s about to start.”

“No problem! The Great Mammon's got ya!” He does as he's told, holds out one glass for each of us, then goes right back to work.

The movie's started (It's Psycho, and perfectly suited to a black and white tv), but Satan isn't paying any attention to it. He's watching Mammon.

I am, too.

His cheerful puttering is much more interesting than any throwback movie.

“Aww yeah, this is gonna be perfect, just gotta… little bit of this, and a little bit of that… Wait, no, Mishka hates newts… Ok, no problem, I just gotta switch in some… Hahaha! Aw, yeah! I'm great at this! Mishka! Master! You guys ready to taste the best thing you've ever had?!”

Satan smiles, and I daresay it's the most heart-warming expression I've ever seen him wear. “Absolutely. I'm starving.”

“Me too!”

It's just sandwiches, but considering the fact that Beel was already in the kitchen, its impressive that he pilfered even that much. He hands one to each of us, then stands right in front of the tv, anxiously wringing his hands together – then wringing the little claws on his wings together, when his hands get pulled behind his back. “They're great, right?! Roasted salamander, with all the trimmings! Tell me they ain't the greatest sandwiches you've ever had!”

“It's delicious,” Satan smiles.

“The greatest sandwich I've ever had,” I agree, even though there's a mystery paste inside that's setting the roof of my mouth on fire.

“Yeah yeah!! I know, right?! I'm awesome!” (He really is.) He grabs a sandwich of his own, but Satan cuts in before he swallows a single mouthful.

“Mammon! What do you think you're doing? Did I give you permission to eat?”

Mammon freezes, with his cheeks full and juice dripping down his chin. He looks like a paranoid hamster. “Mmo…?”

“Exactly. You can eat once Mishka and I have had our fill. Now put that down, and serve.”

“Hhhmmervve?” He brushes off his sandwich and sets it meekly back on the table, swallows what he's got in his mouth (kinda like a an overstuffed pelican), then tries his question again. “Serve? What's that even mean?”

“Well, you know how Barbatos serves Lord Diavolo, right? Try that.”

I tap Satan on the leg until he cocks his head enough that I can whisper in his ear. “And what, exactly, are you planning on learning from that? It wasn't even a command, just a polite request; it won't teach you anything about how pacts work.”

“No, but it will teach me **worlds** about how my brother works,” he chuckles. “And to be perfectly honest, that's suddenly much more interesting.”

Left with such a vague instruction, one that our pact isn't jumping in to straighten out for him, Mammon, believe it or not… tries his best. While the movie plays on, and Satan and I snuggle closer together in a chair that's still not quite big enough for the both of us, Mammon busies himself in the background, talking under his breath and trying to remember how, exactly, a good butler acts.

“Stupid rules,” I catch him grumbling, “stupid pact, stupid… everything. How am I supposed to know how that suck-up weenie acts, anyways? He's always just… there, ain't he? Just hoverin' backstage, Yes Sir this and Right away Sir that…”

For all his complaining, though, he's making a concienentous effort to do as he's told, and his effort is as cute as it is overbearing. He spends the whole movie hovering over Satan's shoulder with a dish towel slung over one arm (which is pointless, but must be what he imagines when he thinks of Barbatos), refilling our glasses without being asked, switching our empty plates with full ones, and glaring daggers at the both of us wherever he thinks we're getting a wee bit too close.

Ok, the last scene in Psycho is, hands down, one of my favorite scenes of all time. It always makes the hairs on my arms stand on end, in the most sinful possible way – and it must be showing, because Satan chuckles and squeezes me up against his chest. “You really are a peculiar human, Mishka. That scene is supposed to scare your species, not excite them. Not that I mind,” he adds, as he shimmies down into our chair and practically pulls me into his lap. “Mmm. I could sit with you, just like this, until the sun comes up. I should stay in more often.” He kisses the top of my head, which catches me so unprepared that it takes my brain a few seconds to figure out why the blazes he's acting so weird all of a sudden.

Oh. OH. HAHAHA. What a friggen dork. He's not being weird.

He's being drunk.

Ok, so, Satan rarely drinks at all, let alone four glasses of wine in one sitting. In all honesty, I don't think he likes the wine itself nearly as much as he likes Mammon serving it to him. And believe it or not, the demon who literally embodies the very essence of fury… is a really, **really** happy drunk.

“Hey hey HEY! I saw that! No kissin'!!! You're only my Master ‘till midnight, remember, so you'd better keep your lips away from my human, or I'm gonna kick your butt all over this room at twelve oh one!”

Satan just winks at him. “Funny, I didn't hear you complaining when I was kissing **you**.”

“THAT NEVER HAPPENED!”

Satan laughs. “I stand corrected! Oh, Mammon. Mishka was right. You **are** a good boy. Come. Have something to eat, then come watch the next movie with us. You've earned it.”

“I have? I mean… damn right I have!” He crams an entire sandwich into his mouth, then gives the room a critical once-over as he chews. There are two empty chairs, but neither of them will do him any good. Even if he **could** use them, I almost think he'd prefer to sit exactly where he does – on the floor, squeezed right between our ottoman and our chair. He crawls under his brother’s knees to get there, pops up between Satan's legs and mine and shimmies around until he's forced us as far apart as he possibly can.

Satan pats him on the head. I smile, and scratch him between his horns. Utterly delighted to be receiving such high praise from both of us, he flutters his wings and snuggles down, at the feet of both of his Masters, to enjoy the movie.

This one, I don't recognize. Something in the Nightmare on Elm Street franchise, maybe? It's good – great, even – but I can't seem to stay focused. The real show is happening beside my knees.

“Eeep!! No! Don't go up there, are you crazy?! He's gonna catch ya for sure! Go downstairs! DOWNSTAIRS!!! HE’S RIGHT BEHIND YOU RUN YOU DUMB HUMAN RUN OH NO I CAN'T WATCH SOMEONE TELL ME WHEN THE SCARY PART’S OVER!!”

Satan chuckles and hugs me close. I snuggle up against his chest (despite the fact that a spade-tipped tail tries to wedge itself between us), and sigh. “Satan, you've figured out what I'm really doing, so… is it right? Do you think he could ever be happy with me? You know… like this?”

“That's not for me to decide. But I think I know a way we can find out.” He clears his throat, and when that fails to elicit even a look, smacks his brother in the back of the head. 

“OWIE! What was that for?! Oh – OH! Right. ‘Sup, Master? Whatcha need? Wine? Crackers? Your own chair, maybe? Whatever it is, the Great Mammon's gotcha covered!”

Satan chuckles and pats his over-eager brother on the head. “I don't need anything. I was just checking something, that's all.”

“Checkin' what? Meh, nevermind. I got it. Another pact question, right?”

“Actually, I just wanted to make sure you were still being… properly obedient.”

“’Course I am! Sheesh! I can't really be nothin' else, now can I?” He yawns and lays his head against my legs to finish watching the movie. “Not ‘till midnight, anyway. So get all your answers now, ‘cause you better believe I ain't calling you Master one **second** longer than I gotta.”

Satan glances at his DDD, smiles, then shows it to me.

It's 12:45.

He presses his lips against my ear. “I don't think you have anything to worry about, Mishka. **That** is a demon who is **exactly** where he wants to be. Get used to having him around,” he chuckles, “because with or without a collar… he's **always** been yours.”


	8. “How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn!... You said in your heart, “I will ascend to the heavens; I will raise my throne above the stars of God…”  Isaiah 14: 12-13

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

“...go…”

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

“…the **fuck** …”

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

“…AWAY.”

I roll over and bury my head under my pillow. Whoever is texting me at 3:07 in the goddamn morning can take every last one of those texts, tie them all to a carrier pigeon, and shove the whole squawking, feathery package right up their inconsiderate asses.

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

If I ignore it long enough, maybe the battery will just up and fucking die.

You know, the same thing I'D like to be doing right now.

Ok, I'd actually just like to be asleep, not dead, but at this point, I'm pretty much open to any option that doesn't involve laying in dark on this shitty gulag/dormitory bed, staring at the little blinking light on my bedside clock that's dutifully announcing every single second of sleep I am NOT currently enjoying.

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

I HAVE A FUCKING STATISTICS EXAM IN FIVE HOURS THAT I AM **NOT** READY TO TAKE FUCK OFF

…

……

…

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

SON OF A WHORE

I knock about sixty-five things off my table trying to find my phone in the dark, then have the exquisite pleasure of suffering eighty-thousand watts of light drilled directly into my brain (apparently the last thing I used it for was to blast the fucking bat signal into outer space) and gee golly, my night is going JUST COCKSUCKING SWELL.

Once my eyeballs stop throbbing, I squint at my phone.

No new messages.

No calls, no emails.

Nothing.

Great. Perfect. Awesome. It's the wrong phone, because OF COURSE IT FUCKING IS.

zzzzzzzzzzzzt…

“PISS OFF I'M COMING!”

Doing everything I can possibly do to avoid actually getting out of bed, I stretch as far across the floor as far I can reach without toppling onto my face, snag my backpack with one finger, and drag it over. I upturn the whole thing onto the floor to get at the hidden pocket in the bottom, and start fishing for my DDD.

I always hide it, now, when I'm back in the human world, after the day my roommate borrowed it without asking, opened an attachment from Satan (his files are **always** cursed, **everybody** knows that) and nearly got herself sucked into the seventh circle of hell for her trouble.

She was in the psych ward, last I heard.

I'd feel bad about it, but hey – don't touch my fucking stuff, bitch.

Alright, there we go. Let's see who needs to die.

Ugh. I could've guessed that without even looking. I swear to god, if this is about Ruri-chan, I'm gonna tie his tail to his horns and roll that simpering twit off a cliff.

PICK UP

PICK UP

PICK UP

PICK UP

WHERE ARE YOU???

PICK UP

PICK UP

PICK UP

PICK UP

_‘It's three in the morning here. This had better be good.’_

MISHKA YOU GOTTA COME BACK RIGHT NOW

_‘I can't. I have an exam tomorrow. I'll be back on Friday.’_

IT'S AN EMERGENCY

_‘Levi, if this is about a cartoon, I'm going to break your face with a desk lamp.’_

THIS IS REAL

THE WORST THING THAT'S EVER HAPPENED

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE COME BACK RIGHT NOW WE NEED YOUR HELP SO BAD

_‘If Asmo's stuck in that fucking glory hole again, just spray him with cold water. He'll be fine. I'm going back to bed._

NO NO NO NO NO NO MO NO NO NO

DON'T LEAVE

MISHKA

COME BACK

_‘Goodnight, Levi. Love you.’_

MAMMON'S FIGHTING LUCIFER

…

…..

………….

….

I don't…

…

I mean, there's no….

…

…..

…oh, no.

MISHKA IT'S BAD

THEY'RE FOR REAL FIGHTING

THERE'S SO MUCH FEATHERS AND SCREAMING AND BLOOD

I'M SO SCARED

MISHKA

DON'T LEAVE

WHAT DO I DO

…No no no no this can't be happening it just can't things like this don't happen I'm dreaming this I have to be dreaming but god he sounds **terrified** and I need to do **something** answer him stop staring at your fucking phone and **_answer him_**

_‘what happened???’_

I wish I didn't already know.

HE TRIED TO MAKE HIM TAKE IT OFF

FIT THE MEETING

THE COUNCIL MEETING

CAUSE DIAVOLO WAS GONNA BE THERE

MAMMON TRIED TO EXPLAIN

WE ALL DID

SOMETHING WE'RE SAID MADE LUCIFER MAD

REAL MAD

HE SAID IF YOU DON'T DO IT I WILL

YOU GOTTA CHIME BACK

CHINESE BAN

COME BACK

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE COME BACK

MAMMON'S CRYING

BUT HE STILL WON'TSTOP FIGHTING

I DON'T THINK HE CAN

LUCIFER'S EVEN MADDER THAN HE

OHNOOHNOOHNO HE JUST THREW HIM THROUGH A WALL ENDINGS ON FIRE HIRE DO WE STOP THEM YOU NEED TO GREY HERE AND COMMAND THEM TO STOP BEFORE THERE

MISHKA THEY'RE GONNA KILL EACH OTHER

The texts stop.

_‘Levi, you need to-_ shit, no, delete delete delete _‘Is Satan with you? Tell him to get Diavolo'_

_‘or call him'_

_‘He cansummon me’_

_‘I'll stop them'_

_‘And explain everything’_

_‘Ho get Satan'_

_‘Right now’_

…

Something's wrong.

_‘Levi?’_

_‘LEVI'_

_‘LEVIATHAN ANSWER ME'_

_‘ARE YOU OK'_

_‘TELL ME YOU'RE OK'_

_‘FOR FUCK'S SAKE LEVI ANSWER ME PLEASE'_

…He's offline.

Shit shit shit shit oh shit on me

I fire off messages to Diavolo, Barbatos, Satan, Solomon, everyone in my contact list, even the angels, four, five, six messages apiece; I call, and call, and call, but the lines just keep ringing and nobody's answering and-

Oh dear god, that's it.

Levi's not offline.

**I am.**

For the first time ever, my DDD isn't getting a signal. 

Someone just kicked my phone out of the network.

Everything goes numb. My DDD hits the floor, and the light of its screen turns my whole room into a quiet, peaceful, softly glowing nightmare.

_Mishka you gotta come back_

I'm staring at the wall. There's nothing on it. It's a flat, white, dorm room wall.

_Mishka don't leave_

_I'm so scared_

_What do I do_

I had a poster there, once. Right there. I remember that, because it burned to ash the first time a ring of violet fire turned that flat, white dorm room wall into a door. I remember being terrified. I think I passed out, actually, because I don't remember anything after that.

Just tiny bits of my poster, white paper ash, drifting to the floor like the softest winter snow.

_Mishka they're gonna kill each other_

I have an exam in the morning. 8am sharp. Statistical math.

I don't think I'm going to make it.

…I wasn't prepared for it anyway.

I'm staring at the wall. There's nothing on it yet, but I'm certain there will be, soon enough. I've done a terrible thing, a terrible thing with all the best intentions, of course… but a terrible thing nonetheless, and people who do terrible things all end up in the same place, sooner or later.

It's inevitable.

I said I would take care of him. 

_Mammon's crying_

I promised.

_But he still won't stop fighting_

When that door opens, again, I think…

_I don't think he can_

Well… I don't think I'll be coming back.

I'm staring at the wall, and remembering the snow. 

I suppose my Devildom will be a very different sort of place, this time around. It will finally be what it **really** is: the final resting place of every wretched human soul, of all of us who ever let temptation get the best of us; of all of us who betrayed someone we loved more than life itself; of all of us who ever made a promise we failed to keep.

Demons weren't actually bred for parties and pranks and classes at RAD. They exist to make sure the worst of us suffer, forever, in the worst possible ways, for the terrible things we’ve done.

We deserve it.

 **I** deserve it.

While I wait, I can't help but fixate on the gentle glow of my DDD, radiating up from somewhere on the floor. That it still exists at all is… surprising. All demons, every last one of them, have a flair for the dramatic. Whoever shut me out could have made it catch fire in my hands. They could have turned it to acid, and melted my fingers to the bone. They could have made It explode in my face, to send a message I couldn't possibly misconstrue.

But they didn't.

They just… quietly shut me out.

“…oh, no…” My eyes finally well with the tears they've been too numb to cry. “…Please, no. Not this. Torture me. Flay the skin off my bones. Boil me alive. …Anything but **this**."

I look back at the wall. There's nothing on it. It's a flat, white, dorm room wall.

And, if demons know as much about human suffering as they should...

...it might stay that way forever.


	9. "And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.  But the greatest of these is love." 1 Corinthians 13:13

There's always somebody here. Usually it's Lucifer, dressed in his finest, who meets me at the fiery gates. The rare times he's too busy even for me, he sends my token guardian angel (…err… guardian demon, I suppose…) who complains the whole time, but still insists that I hold his hand (for my own protection, of course,) and never takes his eyes off me.

Tonight, though…

Everything is quiet.

There's a cloud of bats, chirping and squeaking and fluttering in circles overhead, but they're more interested in moths and mosquitoes than little old me.

Aside from my bats… there's nobody here. That alone is almost enough to send me bolting back through the portal, but… it’s already too late. With the angry hiss of a campfire drowned in water, the ring of violet fire at my back swirls down into a pinpoint and snuffs itself out.

There's no going back.

I'm on my own. 

A human, all alone in the Devildom… is a very, very bad thing to be.

It was five hours before the door opened, and a solid five minutes more before I worked up enough courage to step through.

I wonder, now, if that was a mistake.

I know where I am, at least. There are seven spots where the human world connects to the Devildom, that I know of, and probably a thousand more that I don't. One leads straight into RAD. Another opens into the crypts beneath the House of Lamentation. The one I've just stepped through leads here, to the torchlit street between Risorante Six and a thirty-five foot darkpetal willow tree. I've walked this street a hundred times, and every time before, it's been crowded with throngs of demons, all chatting and laughing and taking well-deserved breaks from the grind of the literal pits.

Tonight, the street is empty. The windows of Ristorante Six are shuttered. The ancient willow stands alone, its boughs hanging heavy with flowers like a still-life oil painting.

I can still hear the echoes of the last time I stood here.

_…I ain't goin' out in public and you can't make me…_

The memory brings a smile to my lips and tears to my eyes; as bittersweet as calling a friend, the day after his funeral, just to hear his voice asking you to Please leave a message, and he'll call you right back.

I linger as long as my heart can bear it, then wipe my eyes with the back of my hand… and start walking.

I don't hurry. It's too late for all that. Whatever happened… has happened. There's nothing left to fix. There's nobody left to save.

I recognize every building I pass, but none of them look familiar. Every curtain is drawn. Every doorway is too dark. Tiny, misshapen creatures scurry from shadow to shadow as I walk, always at the very edges of my peripheral vision, never once where I can see them. Whenever I stop, so do they. I can't tell if they're running from me or following me, but either way, they're making every tiny hair on my body stand on end.

I can hear whispering from every alleyway, and can't shake the awful feeling that something, or someone, is creeping up behind me, no matter how many times I look over my shoulder and see nothing but a deserted, quiet street.

An unprotected human, walking alone down here, is easy prey. I shouldn't have survived even this long, but despite the fact that I can feel their hungry eyes watching me… not one dares make a move.

My eternal soul belongs to Lucifer, and it seems like every lesser demon knows this as well as I do.

This walk should take twenty minutes, but I do it in forty-five. If I can take one thing with me, I want it to be the memory of how deep and dark and beautiful the Devildom truly is.

The House of Lamentation finally looms out of the darkness. The lights are all off. There's smoke drifting out of two windows, smoke so dense that it's flowing down the walls and pooling on the lawn.

It looks like a mausoleum.

…oh god, I really hope it isn't.

I don't remember the heavy entrance doors ever creaking before, but they announce my arrival tonight, so loudly that it jars every last one of my nerves. Anyone still in the house **had** to have heard that… but nobody comes to investigate.

Nobody calls, no doors open, no footsteps…

Nothing.

I leave the door open behind me, just so I don't have to hear that awful sound again, and creep down the darkened hallway. I can hear myself breathing. My heart beating in my chest. My footfalls on the carpet.

I'm all that I can hear.

…Am I already dead? A ghost, haunting a dead, soulless, shadow of my former home? Is my punishment not a lake of fire or burning hail, but just… this? Forever?

I pass Mammon’s door without stopping. As badly as I want to knock… I don't think my heart could take it if he didn't answer.

I'm a coward. A wretched coward. If this **is** my punishment…

I deserve it.

I come to the only door I'm brave enough to open (because it's mine), and quietly let myself in.

…

…oh, no.

This isn't my punishment after all.

I'm not a ghost.

I'm not even dead.

But I think I'm going to be, in about thirty seconds.

Every torch in my room is lit, but their light is unnaturally dim. I can't see the far wall. I can't see my desk. I can't see my bed.

The only thing I can see…

…is Lucifer.

He's sitting in an armchair in the middle of the room, with his wings draped over the sides and his fingers steepled in his lap. His domineering posture, however, looks like the only thing about him that escaped the fight unscathed.

He's covered in blood. Some of it hasn't even had time to dry yet, and I suddenly can't tear my eyes off the mortifying, hypnotic drip, drip, drip, drip that's trickling down the entire length of one of his longest feathers and soaking into the carpet below. His uniform is shredded, and in at least two places, burned black. There's a ragged gash across one side of his face, so deep that I can't believe it didn't rip his eye out.

There's only one possible reason he would **ever** let me see him like this, and the realization turns my blood to frost.

He **wants** me to see him like this.

He wants me see **exactly** what I've done, because…

I can't hear my heart anymore. I think it just stopped, all on its own.

…because if this is what _Lucifer_ looks like…

“Mishka.” It's just my name, but sounds like an accusation. “Come in. We’re going to have… a conversation.”

…I think death might be easier.

I didn't even realize I was paralyzed, wide-eyed, in the doorway, until he says it. I take one step inside and try to pull the door closed behind me, but my hands are shaking so badly that it takes me three tries to get it right.

Lucifer might look like a demon, might live like a demon, might even call himself a demon, but when he glares into the darkest corners of your soul and passes judgment on all the awful secrets that make you who you **really** are, he still does it with the furious, righteous eyes of an arch-angel.

I wrench my guilty eyes away, down to the safety of the indifferent floor, and kneel at his feet.

“No. You can stand.”

The simple instruction, one that means far more than it should, brings tears to my eyes. I bite my lip to keep from bawling, and stand.

Lucifer says nothing.

He makes me wait, just like that.

For the first ten seconds, it's uncomfortable; I just walked into a room where I don't belong, and everyone is staring at me. I don't know what to do with my hands. Fidgeting feels inappropriate, but so does keeping them at my sides. I feel naked and exposed, and have to fight the overwhelming urge to cover myself.

After barely a minute, it's **unbearable**.

I'm not bawling or sniffling or sobbing, but there's a steady patter of fat tears hitting the floor between my feet.

“You look terrified.”

“… I am.”

“Then we can begin. Look at me.”

“Wait… please, before you…” I take a deep breath that catches at the bottom, and try again. “I need to know. Please tell me: is Mammon… I mean, did you…”

He stares straight back, without blinking. “I did what I had to do.”

My soul shatters.

“…oh god…”

Lucifer scowls. “Unless you're referring to me, I wouldn't invoke that name down here again. I've answered your question; I'll answer no more. Do not interrupt me again.”

I am a mouse, two inches tall and squeaking for its life, staring at a cat with death in its eyes. “…Yes, Sir.”

“There are only two things in this world I cherish more than you, Mishka. My oath to Lord Diavolo… and my brothers. I warned you, many times, not to let your incessant meddling endanger either.” He narrows his eyes, and every torch in the room darkens from yellow, to red, to a violet so dark it's almost black. “What you did to Mammon was an embarrassment. Did you honestly expect me to tolerate such nonsense? To table a student council meeting, with one of its officers refusing to take his proper seat at the table? And who, when pressed, still insisted on standing in the corner with his hands tied, like some sort of petulant toddler? Mammon is a fool, but at least **he** knows better than to embarrass me in front of Lord Diavolo. You, apparently, do not. I would have been satisfied kicking him out of the meeting and dealing with the both of you later - until I learned what, **exactly** , you had done to him.”

Outwardly, he's perfectly calm. He hasn't moved; hasn't even raised his voice.

But his eyes, usually the warm russet of cherrywood, are burning red.

“When you first began making your pacts with my brothers, I tolerated your intrusions on one condition, and one condition only. I trust you remember what it was?”

“…you tolerated it so long as it was their choice,” I whisper.

“And did he choose to be driven to his knees and collared like an animal? Did he ask to be leashed to your hand? To have his lips sealed and his wrists in shackles? Tell me, Mishka. **Exactly** what part of this was Mammon's choice?”

“…none of it. But, I only-"

“No brother of mine will **ever** kneel, for **any** human, unless he chooses such a fate of his own free will. Learning to manipulate the massive power of your pacts has made you arrogant. You think you have power over us. You think you know us better than we know ourselves.” His voice drops to low, dangerous growl. **_“You. Know. Nothing. You_** do not rule here, mortal. **_I do._** Forget your place again, and I will **_destroy_** you. Have I made myself clear?”

“…yes, Sir.”

“Then I expect we will **not** be having this conversation again?”

“Never. I understand, I **swear**. Please, just… whatever you're going to do to me-"

“It's already been done.”

I don't even know what that means, but it floods my heart with guilt, so hard and so fast that I can't hold it in any longer, or I'll drown in the flood. “Oh, Mammon…” I drop my head into my hands, and finally let myself go. “Fuck me, I'm so sorry… I never meant for any of this, I was only trying to… no, no, nevermind all that; I'm just sorry, so so sorry…”

I don't know how long I go on, but Lucifer leaves me to my suffering, and doesn't say a word. Only when I'm finished, when I've run out of words and tears and meaningless apologies, when I've poured so much out that I'm hollow and numb, does he remind me that I have an audience.

“…Are you finished?”

The question sounds cold, but for some reason I can't explain, it isn't. When I look at him again, the fire in his eyes has burned itself out, and its ashes are uncharacteristically soft. The torches behind him are all shining brightly again, bathing the Master of the room in a warm, angelic light.

“… Yeah,” I whisper. “I… I'm done.”

“Good.” He sighs, and finally relaxes into his chair. “Then I'm going to explain something to you, Mishka. Before I do, though, let me make this perfectly clear: I will discuss this one time, and one time only. You will not repeat anything I say, to anyone, for any reason, and you will not attempt to broach the subject with me again. Understood?”

Frankly, I'm too numb to care. It's all irrelevant now. “…Yes, Sir.”

“Then tell me… do you know what charity is?”

The simple question sends my exhausted brain straight back into panic mode.

Charity? Yes…? Maybe? I mean, I think I do, but… it seems too obvious, doesn't it? Is that a trick question? A trap? A test? I'm sure I know the answer, but it can't possibly be right, so what

He gives me a critical look, like I'd just told him 2 plus 2 equals three, then shakes his head. “Let's try something a little easier, then. …Have I always been the Avatar of Pride?”

Oh god, I'm too tired for this. I don’t want to play this game anymore; I just want to go home. Please, **please** just let me go to bed, so I can wrap myself in blankets that still smell like Mammon's cologne and cry myself to sleep.

“Self-pity does not become you, Mishka. Pay attention.” As soon as the rebuke leaves his lips, however, he frowns. “Ahh… Nevermind. Sometimes I forget how fragile humans are. Take your time, then, and consider my questions while you work. I expect answers to both when you're finished.”

“…work? What? But… what am I…?”

He scowls at the floor. “One of my wings is broken,” he mutters. “Maybe two. If they aren't set soon, I'll never fly again. That damn fool is stronger than he looks.” He gestures half-heartedly at the table in the corner of the room. “I brought everything you'll need.”

I can't believe what I'm hearing. “But… I have no idea how to-"

“I'll talk you through it.”

“I can't! I mean, there has to be someone else who can-"

“No **demon** ,” he says it like it's a dirty word, “will **ever** touch my wings.”

When all I can do is stare, he rolls his eyes. “Is it really too much to ask that you, for once, just do as you're told?”

That's finally enough to shame me into submission. “…Yes, Sir. I… I can try. Which one is-"

“The one I can't move,” he grumbles. With a pained grimace, he spreads his wings. Three of them stretch wide, until their feathers are brushing the furthest corners of my room. One stays limp. He winces, and closes them tight again. “…ow.”

I collect everything he prepared for me – two heavy bandages and one wooden splint – and timidly step up behind him. “I… I see it. It's only one, not two. But how do I-"

“Take it in your hands. Feel for the break.”

Holding my breath without knowing why, I lay my unworthy hands on the wings of an angel, and start crying all over again. They smell like an old Catholic church, like candle smoke and last Sunday's incense. Their feathers run between my fingers like warm flour, so soft that they make silk feel like sandpaper. Up close, they aren't even perfectly black; there's a dark iridescence about them, one that changes colors from every angle and makes me dream of rainbows on a starlit light.

“…Beautiful, aren't they?”

“They're… I can't even describe it…”

He takes my hand, and gently guides my search. “You should have seen them when they were white.” After a few seconds of careful probing, my fingers finally uncover the only imperfection in an otherwise perfect masterpiece.

“That's it,” he sighs. “Now hold here… and here… and pull. **Hard**.”

My hands obey before my brain even has a chance to decide if they should. I brace myself against his chair and pull, as hard as I can.

Bone grinds against bone, then lurches into place.

Lucifer digs his nails into the back of my hand, but doesn't make a sound.

When I check again, I can't feel any trace of the break, so... I guess I did it right? After trying twice, unsuccessfully, to pull his wing tightly closed enough that I can wrap it, I finally end up hugging both arms around it and squeezing it up against my chest, which leaves…. Dammit, I need at least one free hand… As I struggle, with a face full of feathers and not enough arms, I catch Lucifer watching me in the closet mirror.

“You look ridiculous.”

“Give me… a break… This thing… is enormous…” Ok, if I use my chest **and** the chair, I just might be able to… “…and a lot… stronger than I am… fuck me…

“Mishka! Watch your language.”

“…Sorry, Sir.”

I’m sweating by the time I finally get it splinted securely. It's ugly and unprofessional, but… it's tight. I glance at him in the mirror. “I think that's good, but… err… do you want me to do something about… uhh…” I touch two fingers to my cheek.

“No.”

“You can't leave it like that,” I frown. “It'll scar.”

“I have no intention of ‘leaving it like that’. I just don't need your help. I have a mirror and two capable hands; I'll stitch it up after we've finished. Speaking of which… your time is up. Come back where I can see you,” he beckons me with one finger, “and answer my questions.”

When the last of his feathers slips out of my hand, my sanctuary comes crashing down. I don't know if it was conscious magic or some lingering remnant of divinity, but from the moment I laid my hands on his wings, I was… at peace. No guilt; no pain; no terrible whispers inside my head... nothing. I didn't even realize they were gone, until they all come flooding back at once.

By the time I've taken my place, I’m already so ashamed that I can't bring myself to look him in the eye.

“Well?”

“Charity. You asked me if I knew what it was. It's… helping people who can't help themselves. Feeding the homeless. Donating to hospitals. That sort of thing.”

He nods, but doesn't tell me if I'm right or not. “And the other? Have I always been the Avatar of Pride?”

“…No. I don't think you were. You couldn't have been, back when… you know…”

“Say it.”

I really, really don't want to. The first rule of the Fall is: You don't talk about the Fall. Nobody talks about it; especially not Lucifer. It's the most taboo subject in the Devildom, and a human bringing it up is just asking to be tossed into a lake of fire.

I don't think the choice is mine, though.

I don't rule down here.

“…back when you were an angel. I think… I think you only became the Avatar of Pride when you were cast out.”

“What was I, then, before I fell?”

“Err… I… I have… no idea.”

He stays quiet for so long that I finally risk looking up. I expect him to be glaring at me, coldly judging my ignorance, but he’s not. He's looking at himself in the mirror, tracing his fingers across a wound so deep that it'll probably scar whether he stitches it or not, and seems a thousand miles away. I don't think he even heard me.

“…Lucifer? Are you alright?”

He heaves a long, heavy sigh. “Hrrmm. Talking about this is going to be harder than I thought. Perhaps using myself as the example was… not the wisest choice.” He comes back to the conversation armed with Plan B. “We'll talk about Belphegor, instead.”

“Umm… ok?”

“Belphie was the hardest working angel in the Celestial Realm,” he begins. “If you needed something done, and done right, you went to him. He still loved his sleep, of course, but never for the sake of sleep itself. There is no more satisfying reward after a hard day’s work, after all, than to rest well, knowing that you've accomplished something good.”

He frowns, and looks back at the mirror. “You were… almost correct about me, except that I had become the Avatar of Pride **before** I fell. I was an angel who had become a demon, and was cast down because of it. But Belphegor… he was cast down for standing at my side, and only then, trapped in the darkness of the Devildom, did he become a demon. It wasn't sloth that started the war. It wasn't greed, or lust, or envy. It was pride. **My** pride.”

“…Lucifer, I-"

“Don't. Just listen. During his first weeks in the Devildom, Belphie worked less and less, yet still felt he deserved his well-earned rest. He began procrastinating; pawning his duties onto others; turning down requests for help… all so he could he could savor the reward he craved, yet no longer deserved. Little by little, the virtue he held most dear was corrupted by temptation, and the Avatar of Diligence… became the Avatar of Sloth.”

Something he said strikes a peculiar chord, one that takes me a few seconds of mining through old memories of a Catholic elementary school to piece together.

Virtue. The virtue of diligence.

Seven sins for seven demons, but… there was more to it than that, wasn't there? I'm sure of it. Every coin has two sides; every sin has its counterpart.

Seven sins, for seven demons.

Seven virtues… for seven angels.

Diligence and sloth.

Chastity and lust.

Kindness and envy.

Pride and

“…humility,” I realize aloud. “…holy shit, you were the Avatar of -"

“If you value your life,” he snaps, so harshly that I take a healthy step back, “you will **not** finish that thought. …And watch your language,” he sighs, as an almost apologetic afterthought. “But… hrrmmm… yes. I was. And Mammon?”

I don't even have to think about this one, because he's already told me the answer.

“…was the Avatar of Charity.”

“Mhmm. You were wrong about what it really is, though. Giving alms to the poor and bread to the hungry only became known as acts of charity because they’re symbolic of a virtue that couldn't otherwise be expressed. Charity, Mishka… is love. The very highest form of love, in fact – to love unconditionally, and expect nothing in return. This is what Mammon lost, when he fell. It's ironic, I suppose, that the Avatar of Charity would pay the highest price of us all for his unconditional love of a foolhardy brother.”

Everyone always says that Lucifer has a soft spot for Mammon… and I finally understand why.

“None of us misses what we were. Belphie loves to dream; Beel loves every meal as if it was his first; Asmo loves… ugh. Everyone, I suppose. My solace, such that it is, has been that none of my brothers ever yearned for that which he lost… until **you** , that is. When Mammon looks at you, Mishka, I see him struggling to remember what charitable love felt like, when it once came to him so easily. He wants to love you. He really does. He just… wants to love you the way you deserve to be loved, and doesn't remember how to do it.”

It's no wonder he never talks about this. It's killing me just to listen... and I'm not the one who caused it.

“Demons are powerless to resist temptation. It is this fact alone - not morality, nor sympathy, nor even love - that separates us from the angels. So long as he is free to indulge his greed, Mammon cannot help but demand more, and more, and more, more than anyone could possibly give, until even those who once loved him the most are left exhausted and resentful. Belphie will always be tired. Beel will always be hungry. And Mammon… will always be alone. Unless, it seems-“

There's a quiet knock at my door. Lucifer frowns and pulls out his DDD, checks the time, then shakes his head. “He's early. He's never early when **I'm** the one calling him. And you’ve taught him to knock,” he adds, around the faintest hint of a smile. “I'm impressed. I've been trying to teach him that for centuries. Invite him in. He's been waiting for you.”

I don't… I mean, I can't… there’s no way that...

I trip over my own feet racing for the door.

“…Mammon?!”

“MISHKA?!”

The door slams open, right into my face. The impact leaves me dazed and reeling, but before I can collapse into an undignified pile in the middle of the floor, he grabs me in his arms and hugs me so tightly that my diaphragm stops working. “MISHKA!!! You're alive! I thought you were a total goner!”

He grabs me by the shoulders and looks me up and down, then spins me around to check the back, then back around to grab one of my hands, then the other, then

“Mammon!” I'm laughing. I can't help it. There's so much joy in my heart that my body can't hold it all inside. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just makin' sure you still got all your pieces. Two arms, check. Ten fingers, double-check! One head - that's the most important thing, ya know – hahaha! Right there! And still on the right way, too! That's even better! Are all your insides still inside? He didn't suck out your heart or a kidney or nothin', did he?! ‘Cause if he did, I swear I'm gonna-"

“You're going to do **what** , exactly?”

Well, **that** sure sucked all the happy out of the room in a hurry.

Mammon, finally realizing that we're not alone, stops dead. It looks like his brain just did a hard reboot.

He does, however, slowly slip an arm around my waist, and push me, ever-so-slightly, behind him.

He is, and always has been, my guardian demon.

“Lucifer! I, err… I didn't know you were… Ahh, I mean, if you guys are busy, I can come back later, and… uhh… errrmmm… aw, geez. Sorry about your… uhh… face.”

“Don't mention it,” Lucifer deadpans. “And I mean that. Do **not** mention it again.”

“Yeah, uhh… right. So I'll just, maybe, go back to my room and wait for-"

“You've come to return a troublesome little thing to its rightful owner, I presume?”

Mammon frowns, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his collar. He turns it over in his hands, this innocent trinket that's caused so much grief, and slowly nods. “Yeah. You got it. But I can come back later-"

“No. You'll do it now, or not at all.”

“Ahh… ok, I guess…” He takes a deep breath, like he's steeling himself to jump out of an airplane… and steps off the edge. Now, or not at all. “Mishka, you bought it, so it belongs to you. I figured you might want it back, even though it’s kinda… busted, a little.” He holds it out so I can see it.

Busted a little. I'm shocked it survived the fight at all, and even more so that Lucifer didn't tear it to shreds on principal alone.

The bell’s dented and isn't jingling; the buckle is bent and there's a handful of claw marks dug into the leather, but other than that… it looks as perfect as the first night he wore it.

I can hardly believe it.

“So, you can have it back, if you want it, but… err, here's the thing. I've got this gig comin' up on the weekend for some weird gothy magazine, and sometimes these guys give bonuses if you bring in better stuff than they already got – like, up to three percent! Three! On top of the base, and hourly, and distribution! Three percent for doin' nothing at all is my kinda bag - I'd bring in my own mother for three extra percent!”

“Mammon,” Lucifer sighs, “stop talking about money. You're distracting yourself. And annoying me.”

“Err… right. Sorry. It's just that, I think this stupid thing might be just the kind of accessory they're lookin' for. So maybe… can I hang onto it for a couple days? Just ‘till the weekend, I mean. Then it's all yours.”

“Umm… well, of course you can. Keep it as long as you like. I bought it for you, after all. But… uhh…”

I look at Lucifer. He's thinking the same thing I am; I can see it in his eyes.

There's a tiny, enigmatic smile on his lips.

“Huh? But what?”

“But… Ok, I have no idea how magic works, but don't you think that putting it back on might be a little… I dunno… risky? What if it still… you know… has all its rules?”

“No way! That ain't how curses work, girl. If you kiss a frog and he turns into a prince, he ain't gonna turn back the second you take your lips offa him. That’d be dumb. Once they're broken, that's it. Freedom, baby!” For all his high-spirited bravado, though, he casts his brother a look that's a lot less confident than his words. “…Right?”

I look at Lucifer. He isn't smiling anymore. I think, maybe, that was for me to see, and me alone.

He considers the question in silence, drumming his fingers together in slow, patient waves, for so long that, by the time he shares his carefully worded answer, I've almost forgotten what the question was.

“That's a… fair assessment, yes. Most magic, once undone, does tend to stay that way. It all depends, however, on how, exactly, the spell was worded. If you said,”

_so long as you're wearing my collar_

“’You will stay a frog unless you're being kissed,’ instead of ‘until you've been kissed,’ well… you would have a lot of very disillusioned frogs in tiny crowns hopping around your pond, wouldn't you? Such a thing is possible, but would take considerable foresight and extremely careful wording to accomplish. That being said, most humans, especially those foolish enough to meddle with magic they do not understand,” (…I think that was a shot at me), “tend to have neither of these things.”

Mammon frowns. “So… you're saying…?”

“I'm saying that… if Mishka is anything like most humans, then you should have nothing to worry about.”

“Hahaha! See?! Told ya!”

“ **However** ,” he adds, so sternly that it wipes the smile right off Mammon's face from six feet away, “If I'm wrong, and you have to pay for your precious three percent by spending the next eighty years sleeping on the floor, do **not** come crying to me.”

Mammon just laughs. “Wrong?! You?? Not a chance! You're Lucifer, baby!”

A bit of enthusiastic flattery is finally enough to make Lucifer chuckle. “That I am, little brother. That I am.”

“Aw, yeah! Everything's comin' up Mammon! My human's still breathin', Lucifer ain't mad, and I'm gonna be rolling in cash by Monday! Here!” He shoves his collar into my hands. “I still got one thing to check, though. See this pokey bit?”

He means the prong on the buckle. It's bent pretty badly, and only swings half as far as it should.

“What about it?”

“It's all messed up! It might not even stay closed anymore – and they'd laugh me right off the set if I showed up wearin’ something that kept fallin' off every thirty seconds. Just put it on me for a couple minutes, so I can make sure it ain't ruined.”

“Uhh… why don't you just try it on yourself?”

“Pffft! I can't see the back of my own neck, can I? Are you **sure** Lucifer didn't suck part of your brain out? So go on, just – aw, geez. All you humans got such stumpy little legs; you probably can't even reach all the way up here.”

I'm 5’ 5”, you spectacular twat-waffle. Fuck off.

He kneels at my feet, bows his head and pulls a stray bit of hair away from the back of his neck. “There ya go, shorty-pants. Have at'er.”

Uhh…

…He doesn't really expect me to do this, does he? After all the crap we've been through tonight? He can do whatever the hell he wants; the only thing I want to be doing right now is going to hell to bed so my blood pressure can finally drop below the level of a nuclear meltdown.

“Hey! You awake up there? Sheesh; quit bein' such a fraidy-cat! Lucifer said it ain't magic no more,” (…did he?), “so you got nothin’ to worry about. Five minutes, and you can have it back ‘till the weekend. It ain't like it's- Oh… OH! No no no! Wait! Don't do nothin'!”

OH THANK GOD.

(Or… uh… whoever I'm supposed to thank down here.)

“Wait, wait, wait. Lemme think about this for a second, first. Asmo picked it out, right? He's got pretty good taste; I mean, he musta thought it’d look good on me, right? And Mishka, I **know** you liked how it looked - you'd buy a magazine if you saw me wearin' **that** on the cover, right?”

Wait, **this** is what he's worried about? The fucking **_aesthetics?!_**

If I didn't love his face so much, I'd kick him in the teeth.

But… argh.

Damn him.

“I'd buy every last copy,” I sigh.

“Yeah you would!”

He shoots a hopeful look at Lucifer, next.

“…For the last time, I am **not** buying **anything** with your face on it, Mammon.”

“I ain't askin' you to buy nothin', just – hey, what's wrong with my face, huh? No no no, just… you know fashion, that's all. You're always the best dressed guy in the room, right? I know you hated the curse part, but… it **looked** good, didn't it? Good enough for a professional gig?”

Lucifer looks like he's getting a migraine. “…Fine. In the interest of speeding things along so I can retire to my room and finish bleeding in peace… yes. It... suits you.”

“HAHA! Then it's settled. Now listen here, human,” (what the fuck did he just call me?!), “you're gonna do this for me, whether ya like it or not. You put the stupid thing on me in the first place; the least ya can do now is help me earn a few bucks off it. It's high time you remembered who’s really in charge down here, got it?”

Uhh… Lucifer?

Oh, wait. He means himself, doesn't he?

…what a fucktard.

I liked him better when he couldn't talk.

“Ugh. I give up,” I sigh. “You win. Shut up and put your head back down so I can see what I'm doing.”

For the second time in as many weeks, I wrap a black leather collar around Mammon's neck, and buckle it closed.

_…so, how long does it take, before…_

He suddenly grabs my wrist, **hard** , and looks me dead in the eye. “Uhh, Mishka? Just… just promise you won't give me to Satan for his birthday, ok? I don't wanna belong to nobody else,” he whispers. “Nobody but you. Not even for a day. Not even for…”

The end of his thought is a soft, breathless gasp. His eyes widen, and well with tears so quickly that they’re already dripping down his cheeks by the time he lets go of my wrist, arches his back and squeezes his eyes shut. He's engulfed in a radiant, white light, and the first of a hundred freshly minted pennies lands on the carpet at my feet.

_…bout that long._

“Well, would you look at that,” Lucifer muses. “I guess I was wrong. How… unfortunate.”

I barely hear him. I’m too busy holding back tears, for what feels like the thousandth time in one short night.

When the last of the viscous light drips off his back, flashes like new copper and silently rolls away, Mammon blinks, shakes his head… and looks up at me.

I… I can barely stand to look back.

He's too heart-breakingly beautiful. His eyes are so deep, so blue, so clear; tiny lakes, where you can see all the way to the bottom. I see anxiety, there, swimming near the surface, but under that… way, way down at the bottom, just above the sand, is a tiny flash of light that looks like… hope.

What I don't see, anywhere, is surprise.

I kneel so I can cradle his chin in my hands. “Oh, Mammon. I… I don't know what to say. Can you… can you move?”

He tries. He squirms in place, tries to pull his hands out from behind his back, voices a handful of quiet ‘mmMMmm?'s… then frowns, and slowly shakes his head.

And with that realization, he swallows nervously and glances over his shoulder.

Lucifer rolls his eyes. “Don't look at me. I rescued you once, you damn fool. I do **not** grant favors twice.” He sighs. “I don't know how you expect me to explain this to Lord Diavolo, though...”

Explain it with play-doh models or a note tied to a flying brick; I don't think Mammon cares, and quite frankly, neither do I. We lock eyes again, and after a few seconds of mutual soul-searching, he whimpers softly.

“Hmm? Oh, no… I never did fix that rule about opening your mouth, did I?”

“…MmNn.”

“I didn't I think so. But that… that might be ok, though. I have something I desperately need you to know, and if you could talk… well, frankly, you'd ruin it. So I'll say it just once – **one** time - while you can't crack a joke or laugh it off or suddenly remember you have somewhere else to be.”

I kneel, and press my lips against his ear.

“Mammon… I love you. So, so much. Always… and forever.”

He drops his head onto my shoulder, presses his face against my neck, and envelops me in his wings. He doesn't make a sound – just stays that way, hiding in the dark, squeezing me so tightly that his wings are staring to tremble - but after a while, his shoulders start to hitch, and I can feel the dampness of his tears seeping into my shirt.

“Shhhhh… I know. I know. You want to say it back so badly, don't you?”

Without lifting his head off my shoulder, he nods.

“…But you can't, can you? Not even if you **could** talk.”

No answer, this time, except for the quiet, shaking sobs he's breathing into my neck.

“Hey… hey.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, then gently push him back so I can see his eyes. “It's ok,” I smile. “I don't want you to say it. I really don't. There's more than one sort of love; not every relationship has to be built on chocolates and roses and overpriced hallmark bullshit. What you and I have… isn't like that at all, and it never will be. You're never going to be my partner. We're never going to be ‘together'.” I kiss one straggling tear off his cheek, then lay my hands on his collar. “We are a Mistress and her pet, Mammon. A Mistress and her beautiful, loyal, obedient pet. Have you ever known a puppy who could talk? Who could come right out and tell his owner how much he truly loved her?”

Sniffling quietly, he shakes his head. “MmNn…”

“But she knows, doesn't she? How could she not? She sees it every time she comes home, and he greets her at the door every bit as excited as the day she brought him home. She hears it every time he knocks over the fancy little table in the hallway with his tail, just because she called his name. And she sees it, Mammon. Trust me. She sees it. She sees it in your eyes, every time you look at her, and she **knows**.”

**_“Enough.”_ **

…oh, no.

“Mammon, stop crying. It's unbecoming. Mishka, come here. We aren't finished.”

My heart fills with lead, and starts to sink. “Yes, Sir.” I brush Mammon's hair out of way so I can whisper in his ear. “You're released. And if we're about to die… I'm so, so sorry.”

“Don't be,” he whispers back. “I… I know where humans go. I'll find you again. Wherever you end up… just wait for me, k? The Great Mammon'll find you.” He kisses the top of my head, pushes himself to his feet, and helps me up.

We both turn to face Lucifer, who looks every bit as unimpressed as he sounds, and stand together to be judged.

Lucifer looks us both over, then slowly shakes his head. “I tolerated this debacle only to satiate my own curiosity. Now that it's clear that neither of you have any intention of coming to your senses, let me make something perfectly clear: Mammon, I would cast myself down all over again before I **ever** permitted one of my brothers to walk around in public wearing such a disgrace.”

He snaps his fingers, and Mammon's collar is consumed in a torrent of violet flames.

“Yeeargh!!!”

“Mammon?! MAMMON!”

“And Mishka,” he continues, snatching my attention back with the sheer force of his furious conviction, “I will suffer no member of the council attending meetings with his hands tied. What you do to him in the privacy of your own room, however, or between the walls of the House of Lamentation, is of no concern to me. I expect you to adjust his ‘rules' accordingly. Do I make myself clear?”

…Wait…

…I mean… what the hell did he just say???

Is he…?

My room is filled with the delicate jingle of a tiny brass bell. Or rather…

A silver bell, now. A silver bell that sparkles like rainbows in a starlit sky, and sounds like windchimes on an empty December night.

“LUCIFER WHAT THE HELL?!”

Mammon's feeling his way around his neck, over a collar that no longer bears any evidence whatsoever of the hell it endured to be there, and I catch a glint of light reflecting off a new addition: a little silver padlock, hanging from the back.

I look at Lucifer. He's holding a tiny, silver key in his fingers.

He snaps his fingers again, and the key vanishes. “I freed you easily enough,” he offers by way of explanation. “If anyone else cares to try their hand at it,” his eyes are shining with a smile, even I if his expression isn't, “now they'll have to go through me, first.”

Before either of us can process that, he continues. “This has been a… trying night for us all. I need a bath, Mishka needs to rest, and Mammon… you haven't slept in days. It's time. Go to bed.” He slides the hot pink, fluffy dog bed across the room with his foot. “This is yours, I presume?”

“Huh?! I… I mean, yeah, I guess it is, but…” He looks at me, then at Lucifer, then back again… and scowls at the floor. “Aw, geez. I can't believe you guys are actually gonna make me do this. You don't really expect me to sleep there, do ya? It's.. it's so humiliating!”

“You'll get over it.”

Grumbling under his breath the entire time, Mammon snatches his bed away from Lucifer and jams it up against my feet.

Then he stops, self-consciously clears his throat, leans down and whispers something in his brother's ear.

Lucifer chuckles… and that's all.

With that all taken care of, Mammon flops down, wraps himself in his wings, and buries his face in the fleece. “This is stupid,” he grumbles, “It's not like… mmmmmm. Ok… maybe this… ain't so bad after all…” He curls himself into a ball, shuts his eyes, and starts kneading the far side of the bed with his feet. “Mmmmmm… Hehehe… this thing is pretty soft, actually.” He yawns, and snuggles down deep. “I think… I think I could get used to this. But don't you go tellin’ nobody, ya hear! I'm only sleepin' down here cause I,” he yawns again, “’cause I got no choice…”

It's only about thirty seconds, though, before he's fast asleep, snoring softly and drooling all over the fleece.

I don't know if this is one of Lucifer's oh-so-subtle enchantments, or just the fact that the human brain was never meant to run the entire gamut of emotions in one night, but I suddenly feel as tired as he looks. My thoughts are a quiet buzz of soothing white noise, but… there's one thought, way down deep, that's still trying to claw its way to the surface.

The longer I watch Mammon, the more insistent the little voice gets - until it hits me, all at once. Something isn't right. It’s been staring me right in the face all night. I've been seeing it since the minute he walked the door, without seeing it at all.

I look at Lucifer, then back at Mammon, just to make sure I'm not imagining things.

Their brawl left Lucifer looking like he got run over by a passenger train.

…But Mammon doesn't have a scratch on him.

“Oh my god… You didn't fight back…”

“I never said that I did.”

“But… Then… That means that… you knew. You knew everything…”

Lucifer chuckles. “I usually do.”

“For how long?!”

“Long enough.”

“But… if you knew, then why-"

“Mishka, do not waste my time with questions you already know the answers to.” He makes an absent gesture towards the floor, one that I've been waiting to see since the second I walked into the room, without even realizing it.

I'm on my knees in an instant, and, at last, leave the weight of the world well out of my reach. That he's finally allowed me to take my proper place means I am, in my Master's eyes, at least… forgiven. “Thank you, Sir,” I breathe, “for just this, right now… but also… for everything.”

“You finally understand, then?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. It had to be his choice. Not part-way through, not after the fact… it had to be **his** choice, right from the start.” I sigh, and lay my tired head against his leg. “I'm such a fucking idiot…”

He echoes my sigh. “I must be doing something wrong.”

“Sir?”

“You've had your pet for a week, and he's already sleeping at your feet. I've had mine for six months, and I can't even get her to stop cursing,” he chuckles, as he curls his fingers idly through my hair.

“Seven, actually. Seven months and sixteen days, to be-"

Mammon rolls over, and something about the melodic jingle of his new bell starts him laughing. “Hahahaha! Hear that? Lookit! It’s… it's… haha! …there's so much, and all for meeee…”

I glance at Lucifer. “…Mammon talks in his sleep?”

“Only when he's really happy.” He frowns, and adds, “Though he also tends to have nightmares after scary movies; a fact you may wish to consider when you're choosing what he's allowed to watch.”

“…I wonder what he's dreaming about.”

“It's always the same dream.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Give him a minute,” Lucifer sighs. “It's coming.”

I close my eyes while I wait, and dream my own perfect dream, one that smells like an old catholic church and sounds like the laughter of a sleeping angel.

“…and here he goes.”

I yawn, and peel my eyes open.

“Awww yeah,” Mammon murmurs, now on his back and smiling at the ceiling, “It's finally happening… it's… it’s raining moneeeeey!!”

I laugh. I can't help it. I’ve never seen anything sweeter than my beautiful, idiot demon, laying on his arms (I should probably fix that rule, because **that** doesn't look very comfortable) and making little grabby motions with his wings as he tries to catch all those glorious, beautiful coins, raining from the heavens.

His sparkling smile is short-lived, however. I don't know if the weather cleared up or all his gold coins just turned to lead, but his laughter dissolves into the fretful moaning of someone caught inside a nightmare. “Nnnrr… where did… what do I…” He frowns, tucks his wings against his chest and sneaks his tail out, instead. The little spade on the end pats its way across the floor, searching for something (a bag full of gold, I bet), and the longer its hunt comes up empty, the more restless he gets. “…gotta be… nnnrrr… somewhere…”

“…Does his dream always end like this?”

“…Never.” I can't see Lucifer’s expression from here, but I know he's frowning. “This is… new.”

I hold out my hand, just so his increasingly desperate search has something, at least, to find, on an otherwise empty floor. It doesn't take him long, and when the tip of his tail brushes across my fingers, it stops, tentatively feels its way over my hand – then winds around my wrist, so tightly that my last two fingers go dead numb.

Two measly fingers (what has a pinky ever done for me, anyway?) is a small price to pay to hear his shuddering sigh of relief. “Mmmmm… there you are…. Where the… hell've you been…”

Hehehe. I don't know if his dreaming mind just found a pot of gold or a winning lottery ticket, but whatever it is, it sends him straight back to his happy place. “Hahaha! Mishka! Yaaaay… you gotta… come see… Mistress, come quick…” He tugs insistently on my wrist. “Mmmm… come on, ya… lazy bones… it's rainin' money! See it?! Ain't it… I'm gonna be… mmmmm… 

… _we're_ gonna be rich…”

“Oh, Mammon…”

For a demon who isn't supposed to remember anything of selfless, unconditional love…

… **that** , I think, was pretty damn close.


End file.
